On hair

Have I written something on hair before? When one reaches the grand old age of almost thirty, it gets easier to be a little absent-minded, I guess.

I had my hair cut- again. This was the third time in two months. The event inspired me to analyse my character and I ended up hating myself.

I had my long hair drastically bobbed to just below the ears a couple of years back and I have been trying to grow it back ever since, because, no joke, short hair is more high-maintenance than long hair. But instead of waiting patiently for it to grow back, I became impatient for change.

Me a few months back

So I dyed it jet-black.
Then I decided that I wanted a pixie cut.
So i had one.
waited a bit, then when my hair became a little longer, I started to look like Liu Kang from Mortal Kombat. Yes, I really did.



When hair reaches that 'laklawh' stage of either awkwardly curling out or under when it reaches one's shoulders, the only thing one can do is to tie it back or keep it in a bun. A friend suggested I straighten my hair so that I'd no longer have north-east-west-south hair. So I had it straightened. Then I found out that jet-black poker straight hair makes me look like Professor Snape.

Still primping, though.

So I went to get my hair colored a bright red, but the folks at the parlour told me that I needed to pre-lighten my hair so that the new colour could stick. Consequence of the treatment- bright red hair achieved. Stretchy, falling hair also achieved. Also, a disapproving look was earned from our Sunday School Superintendent. Had my hair colored again to a subdued "shows only under direct light" red. Then I had to get the ends of my hair trimmed because all the work I had done on it had given me split ends.

Lesson learnt, I diligently started to grow out my hair, and had it coloured just three times. Nothing drastic though. I just like the feeling of having something done to my hair. And as my hair grew, I resolved to not do anything to it anymore. I did try a different parting, but someone said I looked like L-Ray, a guy who sings. So I went back to my old parting.

A couple of months, it reached shoulder length, but the colour had started to fade. I determinedly kept from colouring it gaain, but succumbed when a friend asked if she could trim the ends. No major changes, whew.

Then I accompanied a friend who needed to get her eyebrows threaded, and at the sight of the combs, sciscorrs (blanked on the spelling, spell check suggested 'Francisco', wth?) scissors and hair products, I felt again the uncontrollable urge to have something done with my hair. The stylist suggested some feathers, and it sounded nice, so I said yes. The cut she gave me, plus my faded red hair colour made me end up looking like MacGuyver, minus the awesomeness :(

I's sorry, okay :(

"Ok", I reasoned to myself, "it will grow out and in a month's time, you will start to look like a girl. Just be patient and stay away from people who cut hair".

But I didn't.
I accompanied a friend who needed to get her hair trimmed, and the guy cutting her hair was such a flamboyant showman, taking small leaps and making artistic-looking gestures with his hands as he deftly wove his sharp scissors in and out of her hair. And I thought, "I need this guy's hands in my hair". So I asked him if he could make me look more girly, and he said that he could make me look not just girly, but smart, too.

Correction, he made my hair look girly and smart, but very short and trendy, and I didn't look like me. So back came the hair clips and the scrunchies. Not knowing what else to do, I coloured my hair again.

All these made me analyse my behaviour. Was this an acting out for a greater change, or am I just one of those permanently dissatisfied people? Did I, despite my easy style of dressing, perhaps crave for a more glamorous image? Or is this like when someone gets addicted to plastic surgery?

So I hated myself. I deleted two blogposts because I felt they were as shallow as I am. I drank coke again after swearing off it. Botched a presentation.
All with my new hair tied up in a bun.

TL; DR: I look like a guy.

Rambling

"Friends, lovers or nothing"- so sang John Mayer. Much as I love him, I disagree on this one, There is no "or".  You are all of those for me, shugababy.

Seen me at my best and at my worst. Seen me rant and rave at trivialities, make molehills out of mountains, seen me stumble, seen me afraid, seen how I have faked indifference for insecurity, pride for fear, flippancy for anguish.

 You whom I talk to when I'm happy, sad or embarrassed.  You whom I turn to, always. You who know me inside and out, and yet a mystery to you, for I hold back, fearful of scaring you away with how much I need you. Friend? yes, truly that. You are my punching bag, my soundboard, my champion, my reality check, my critic, and my love, yes, my love.

Lover? Yes, that you are. My all, my me, the rib from which I am purportedly created, my self, my completion, my love, my biggest strength, my biggest weakness. You are me and I am you, and yet, I do not know you fully, and you have yet to know me fully. My madness, my refuge, my calm and my storm. I camouflage my fear in arrogance and you create laughter. Yes, you laugh, you are sarcastic, you are brilliant, and I marvel everyday at your brilliance and I wish.. you know me. You know what my wishes are. You drive me to insanity. You take me to the brink, you fulfill me and yet I am left wanting more. I dance to your tune, a desperate, mad little dance, my darling, and you with your simple, kind, large-hearted way, am unaware of my insanity, of my desperate dance.

Nothing, my love, nothing. That is all I can give you. "Life is ...a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing". I am the sound, I am the fury, and I signify nothing.

I grieve, my love. This is my way of grieving.

I've never been a poet(ess). In the end, it is in empty words that I try to express myself, that in which I try to find succor, that in which I seek refuge.

Happy friendship day.

Time

We went for a walk here, remember? And I said something that made you laugh. Do you know how much I like the feel of your laughter?

Did it rain that day? I can no longer remember. Memories of what we actually did and say have started to splinter. All I remember clearly is you.

We both loved that scene in “Meet Joe Black” where Brad Pitt and Claire Forlani kept looking back at each other when they met at that coffee place, just missing seeing the other person trun back. Then Brad Pitt gets hit by that truck. Funny thing, though, sweet-looking Claire has sex with Death, who inhabits Brad Pitt’s body. So there’s spiritual possession and necrophilia involved. Heheh. No, I didn’t come up with this bit of info on my own, surprisingly. It’s courtesy of… Cracked, yes you guessed it. I love that site. Maybe because I am, a bit, too. Cracked, that is.

I don’t know if you’ve seen that movie “Serendipity”. John Cusack and whatsername that hot vampire chick? Damn, I knew her name just a minute ago. Selene ti mai ang, her Underworld character. So they just keep missing each other, and Cusack is about to give up when he sees Selene’s hand glove or something, and then he finds her lying on an ice rink , I think, and he just lies down beside her.

How many misses before we find each other?

Time is funny, isn’t it, in all its arbitrary capriciousness, One minute you think you have all the time in the world, the next you realize how much time has gone by, and with it, how many missed opportunities.

Time goes by so fast and our lives are spent in the pursuit of so many meaningless things that one day you wake up to find you no longer know what to say, so you hold imaginary dialogues in your head. Or is that just me? Does anyone out there do it too? I think I might be a tad bipolar.

I want time. I want time to redo what we have done and the things we still have not done. I want to walk barefoot with you on grass where there are no leeches, worms or dog poo. I want to fly a kite with you, I want to do the dishes together while some old tune plays somewhere in the background. I want to read quietly while you do your own thing by my side. I want to fall asleep talking to you, I want time to fight with you, and make up soon after. I want time to play truth or dare till we run out of truths to tell, and dares to dare. I want time to re-watch “Up” and “Megamind” together. I want time to do your laundry and iron your shirt, though only on a one-time basis, the rest of the time you please do it yourself thankyouverymuch (Do you really not mind that I’m not a very domestic person?) I want time to hold endless,  senseless debates with you. I want time with you. I think I am OCD-ish about you.

I want time to kill time with you.

And I want to walk there with you again.

Fake tales of freedom

"So," I tell him,  "there's this woman I know who has been diagnosed with manic-depressive disorder. We were talking the other day about freedom and she said, 'No matter how abnormally I act, people always indulge me because I'm 'insane'. It's like I have the license to misbehave! I feel so liberated!'"

"Interesting. That's one way of looking at it, I suppose," he says.

"She reminded me of this novel called 'The French Lieutenant's Woman' in which this character whatsername deliberately encourages her puritanical society's belief that she is a scarlet woman so that she could be ostracised from that society, and thereby be free of its sham conventions and moral obligations".

"How is it that you can recall my obscurest f**k-ups and yet be unable to remember any of the names of the characters in all the novels you've read?"

"..."

"You do, you know".

"Well, that's immaterial. What I'm trying to say is, is ultimate freedom only possible when one loses one's society? Because what we call freedom always comes with some kind of responsibility or an obligation to someone or something", I persist.

"Why is it that when you bring up some peeve, we have to talk it to death, but when I do, its 'immaterial?'"

"Fiiinneeee. What do you want to talk about then?"

"Never mind".

"Hmm, okay then".

.....

"If you truly loved me, you would not pretend not to know what I want to talk about."

"You're the guy! Guys are supposed to get straight to the point! So what do you want to talk about!?"

"Oh right, so its okay for you to gender-stereotype."

"What's with you???"

"Sorry. I'm just depressed".

.......

"It's also been said that true freedom exists when one knows one is loved unconditionally", he says after a while.

"I don't know. I don't really buy this unconditional love thing".

"So you believe in freedom through lunacy and ostracism, but not through love?"

"Bleh".