The Haircut

Today, I went for my once in a lifetime haircut. See, I would love to keep neat short cropped hair all the time but being the lazy bastard I am, it kinda gets impossible after a while. So, what usually occurs is me going in with lots of aspirations, hating my haircut the minute i walk out the door, having a shower and pondering all other possibilities and finally using wax or gel to make it work. But all these product-laced efforts only last two weeks, after which it always gets too long to style properly. Well, I could style it, just the laziness kicks in again.

Thus, it will eventually grow to the length I used to sport in Sec 4. Long at the back, curled up by long orange comb then, mum's hair brush now. Centre parting like how a true blue Yindian should start his foray into the hairstyling world. Memories of the cockroach feelers, flying in the wind during PE during JC times do ring a bell. I've never been into crazy hairstyles. Shavings here and highways there. Spiked up in weird places and "look at my pubes" uber-modern styles.

I like my hair salon. It's one of those franchised ones situated in a neighbourhood enclave. I go there only for this one Malaysian lady who has since found a living in Singapore. The very first time I popped in, we got into this conversation about how she used to help out in the RC [coincidentally situated under my block] and how politicking is so common there. She told me she felt left out, that most of the times, the educated elite preferred to discuss things within themselves and just use the blue collar volunteers for only the dirty work and hard labour. Also, there was some issue about the way finances are accounted for within that office, but since this kinda accusation could find me in a costlier - than - Hermes suit, I'd prefer not to tell the tale here.

We bonded because we shared the same hate for the RC chairman, both past and current. I hated the old bloke cos he used to tell my dad I was smoking under the block when he wasn't really gonna get paid for his CID work. The new bloke just pisses me off because he's into the whole "There is a no football sign here so I have the right to confiscate your rubber butterfly balls" mode. Who the fuck are you man? The police? What gives you the right to snatch away a 2 dollar rubber ball that was probably bought by 4 little primary school kiddos pitching in their saved 50 cents each from their allowance. And why don't you have the balls to go confiscate the sporting accessories of middle aged men who kick around a football in the same amphitheatre on the weekends. You big bully you!

She hated the former cos she didn't like the way his dogs snapped at her. She didn't like the current one because she felt he was a money grubbing condescending bastard. I agreed with her on both counts because when someone has many sharp objects quite near your grey matter, it's best not to disagree or invite a healthy discussion.

The second time I went in, a newbie apprentice was tasked to do my hair. I was very alarmed that she had let him do it, but she took great care to step in every 5 minutes to repair his mistakes and in the end, it was a good hair cut. So, I was still at peace.

Today is the third time I'm in and some other bitch steps up to the plate. This was very interesting because she apparently thought that the only way to communicate when an Indian was in the salon was to speak in Mandarin. After being politely reminded by my fav stylist that I understand every single word she said, she switched to Hokkien. Another heavy sigh from my stylist to indicate that I'd know what she said too. In desperation she resorted to sign language. I mean come on doofus! IT's a place full of fuckin mirrors! Whatever, wherever you sign, I can still see it within a 20 degree left-right firing range.

What really got to me was that she refused to do the back of my hair the way I wanted it. A V-Cut. Her reasoning was that, it was pointless because my hair and my skin were almost alike in colour and thus no one can see that the cut was V in shape anyway. I was like, what the fuck bitch! I pay my money, I deserve to get what I ask for, ugly looking or not. At least if it turns out ugly, you can do the "I told you so" and smirk right. Fuckin NNB.

I realized I began ranting without any focus. So, yeah, moral of the story is. When your OWN stylist is busy, always have the patience to wait for her to be free. Don't kay kiang and just go for the next alternative. Anyhow, I'm still at the "I hate my new haircut" phase. Still sitting at my laptop, still contemplating on whether to go with wax or gel, still thinking if I should just cry myself to sleep in utter depression.

Ah, fuck it, I'm going for a beer.


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