Singapore Adventure

Monday, August 08, 2005

Bad. Bad Haircut.
by venitha

I recently got the most awful, most depressing, most ridiculous, most hysterical haircut. I can laugh about it because you can't see it. Thank God.

Unfortunately, I can't escape from it. And there are lots of mirrors in my apartment. I frequently look in them now and scold my reflection. Bad. Bad haircut. A bratty child, it looks back at me, giggles, and behaves even worse. Who knew a haircut could be this bad? If only we could harness its badness power, and use it for good. We could cure cancer, clean Singapore's public toilets, and jam the endless broadcasts of "Reach Out For The Skies".

I told Jim early on here, before I'd invested a small fortune in hair de-frizzing products, that I didn't know if I could stand two years of absolutely positively hating my hair. Think what two years of scowling every time I look in the mirror will do not just to my psyche, but to my face; that will easily counteract the one benefit to suffering through all this humidity: its anti-aging effects.

Now I don't know if I can stand however long it'll take this haircut to grow out. There's truly no escape but time. It's way too hot to wear hats here. I thought for a minute that I could almost pull it off I dressed all in black, wore a load of bright red lipstick, and donned large dark sunglasses. But, no, wait; actually, that was just the dark sunglasses preventing me from being able to see it in all its glory. Drat.

In desperation, I'm considering going yet shorter. Of course, I've already hacked away at the bangs myself. Jim has taken away my scissors. Or perhaps I just wish that he had. I keep convincing myself that I can't possibly make it worse, and then I prove myself wrong. It's a good thing we don't already own an electric razor and that I can't remember if it was the bookstore or the sushi restaurant that I saw selling them.

I went to this salon over a month ago for just a trim. They didn't run screaming at the sight of an expat, and I came out looking a lot like I looked going in, only less frizzy. So this time I thought I'd be brave: a real haircut and - drum roll, please - color.

Relative to the haircut, the color is a smashing success, easily worth all the fireworks they keep setting off here in its honor. Okay, those might actually really be for National Day, but, still, this color is worthy of celebration in Asia, where most salons stock black, black, and ummm, more black. There was, of course, that frightening detour the hairdresser took on the way to this happy auburn destination. Blinded by my neon cheeto-colored reflection, I took deep calming breaths (ohm ohm) and speed-dialed Jim to tell him I might be just a tad late. Three hours later, I was so relieved to see myself in the mirror that I let them continue with the cut. Obviously, wooziness from so many hours of inhaling salon fumes had impared my usual good judgment.

Well, this decides it then. I definitely can't go to work looking like this. People know me there! I was searching all over Singapore for an excuse to quit or at least to extend my current leave of absence. Then I let my guard down for a second, and in a mad blur of snipping scissors, an excuse found me. Whew! It's a relief, really. Now I can concentrate all my energy on hair growth. Do you think it would grow faster if I were nicer to it? Unfortunately, I don't think I've got it in me.

Bad. Bad haircut.