B***h Hair Day

I know that lately, I have been posting like two entries in one day, sometimes one after another. It’s not because I’m bored (a lie) or anything, but just because every now and then, random thoughts always pop out in my head. So, knowing all well that people at work won’t appreciate my jokes, let alone my random thoughts (seriously, about pregnant women?) and not to mention my sudden burst of laughter while reading other people’s blogs and trying to disguise it by fake coughing when I was supposed to be doing real work, I resort to blogging. If that makes me look like a pathetic loser, well, so be it. Because in my mind I know that I am not a loser (maybe) and I have a cool hair that I cut myself.

Yes, you read (heard?) it right, folks. I cut my own hair. Or I gave myself a haircut (???). I don’t know what to use here. I hope you’d understand. This action (haircut) was prompted (more like provoked) by the annoying too-short-to-tie-but-long-enough-that-it-becomes-super-irritating hair. But to be completely honest, I actually made a bet with someone (or something, depending on your definition) that if He (I’m just calling it a “He” here) promised that I could settle the problems that I had on that day, I’d cut my hair. With my own bare hands and a pair of scissors.

[I have always wanted to get a haircut but I have a trust issue. You see, I have a hair-stylist that I always go to since the past year whenever I want to get my hair cut. She is awesome and dare I say, when awesome (her) meets awesome (me), we become doubly awesome. And the result – equally awesome haircut. Since I got her treatment (not sexually related), I swear that I will never cheat on any hair stylist else ever again. Also, I am always promised with a happy ending (no pun intended). One day before leaving for Greece, I have made an appointment to get my hair cut. As what one wise man used to say to me, shit happens and shits really did happen on that day which prevented me from getting a haircut (I don’t want to talk about these shits). When I got here, I realise that I will have to let my hair grow long because there is no way I’m letting anyone else to do Edward Scissorhands on my hair. Or on any part of my body, and come to think of it, especially “down there’. I also realize that there is nothing funny about the last sentence at all and somewhat (read: a lot) creepy. I apologise]

Anyways, He actually got my problems settled and I, a man of my words, had to perform the never before ritual-like art of cutting my own hair without the ample aid of mirrors and professional know how. In fact, the closest thing I have come to actually cutting hair was when I cut my sister’s (and my) Barbie’s (let’s call her Stacy as I can’t recall what we actually named her) hair, resulting in my sister crying and promising that I will forever burn in hell because apparently cutting her (our) Stacy’s hair is a big sin. Whatever. I was just trying to help because truth be told, Stacy’s hair was a mess after a series of hair brushing and braiding by yours truly. Besides, I was at an age where imagination totally ruled and I was awesome (the latter still holds true. So does the former).

[Stop questioning. I was very close with my sister and still am so it’s totally fine to play Barbie with her. And cooking fake leaves pretending we were housewives (but sometimes I was the husband coming from work, tired). And skipping too]

I began the ritual by panicking. Not a good start. But I managed to put a plastic bag around my shoulders because that’s what you do when you go get a professional haircut in a real salon. Only the plastic bag is not literally plastic and it doesn’t smell like Spanish onions. After chanting some mantra (mostly consisted of “There is no way you’re going to f**k this up because you’re awesome” and “You’re ugly anyway so a s**tty haircut won’t make any difference”), I chopped my first batch of hair. I knew at that instant that it was going to be a hell lot worse because 1. I started with the hair on the back and 2. I totally didn’t/couldn’t see whatever the hell I was doing. So began the haircutting fiasco, which mostly included me crying like a girl, screaming profanity and asking NJM how badly I have messed up.

Ezie: Seriously, does that look okay?
NJM: Yes, owh, very nice. You did good!
Ezie: S**t, that bad? Is there any point to keep on living?
NJM: Quit whinging. It’s alright.
Ezie: I think the right is shorter than the left. OMG!!! I want to die.

NJM took scissors and stabbed Ezie straight into his liver.

NJM: That’ll teach you, you whinging b***h! Oh hey look at that. You got what you wished for.

Okay, so it didn’t actually go out like that but you get the gist.

I somehow calmed myself down and continued on. I mean, enough damage was already done and there’s no way that I could make it worse. Turned out, I was right. I applied the techniques used by Jane (my hairstylist) and got my fringe going on again. Thank god for being a quick learner and an excellent observer*. And I totally like my fringe now that I can’t stop flaunting it. The hair is not bad either. Sure, no one noticed (except a workmate who only commented on my getting a haircut 2 days after and wanted to slap me on the back of my neck) and sure I was paranoid at first, but after all that had been said and done, my hair is all good. And still shiny.

[*I swear that I first learnt how to swim by watching the Olympic Games. When I finally got into a pool one day, I decided to try it. Sure, I failed at the first gazzzilion times but succeeded soon after I learnt that my hands were like ET’s hands and that there was no lifeguard around in case I drowned. The only one around was only my sister who, until now, was as hopeless at swimming as I was at that time. My aunt apparently got sick of training her nephew and niece and decided that sipping cold coca-cola was a much better option]

To everyone who has ever doubted my awesomeness, this story is yet another proof of me being just that or perhaps (depending on your judgment), completely the opposite. Either way, I am both humbled and proud by what I have accomplished.