On How to Survive a Bad Hair Cut

I had a haircut yesterday. It must have been pretty bad since mother changed her stance on my hair style from the previous intense dislike to an honest pity and empathy. For a good hour or two, she went on and on about how stupid the hair stylist is, and since it was she who suggested me to have a haircut at that place, she was in a full guilt mood. All I could think of was how can I squeeze out this guilt of her to my full advantage. People, I am now one step closer to my around the world trip, yay!

It was also such a fun time to listen to her attempts to make me feel better about my hair:

Mom: Me, try to sweep your bangs to the side. You look like an idiot with your bangs on the front.
Me: Uhm, thanks mother, but I don't think the haircut permits me to do that.

Mom: You know Me, you could have your elementary school haircut right now, and looks exactly the same.
Me: Okay, let me get this right, are you trying to tell me that I look like how I was in my elementary school years, which was 15-20 years ago? The time when you made me have that super short boyish cut? Mother, ... I think you may be right.

I'm somewhat surprised that I am not as distressed about my haircut as much as my mother is. One reason is probably because I have now resigned to the fact that I would never have a good haircut. That and also I am in a reminiscing mood lately and the bad haircut reminds me of the worst hairdo that I've ever had, which also happens to coincide with the most vivid memory I have of my grandmother a.k.a my dearest Bobo.

Bobo is the only grandparent I've ever known, but her enormous personality and character drains me from the the need of getting acquainted with my other grandparents. She was such a dominant and prominent figure, someone who I simultaneously love, revere, fear, and admire. A true beauty, a collector of tons of friends and fans, an independent and free willed being, a lover of life, and a survivor of a hard knock life.

Of course when I was a child, my feeling of her was less complex and more singularly defined by fear. Bobo believed in the fear system to discipline the young spoiled kids, and as a young spoiled kid, I was only permitted to know her as a stern evil grandma whose delight was to spank me whenever I do something wrong in her eyes. A suggestion to visit Bobo's house would usually followed by my intense groan of angst and a mental preparation note of list of things to do and not to do to remain alive and bruiseless after the visit. Do compliment her dishes regardless whether you like it or not, do sit straight, do not forget to kiss Bobo in both cheeks, and do not ever ever say that you want to go home.

Funny, I don't even have any recollection of Bobo spanking me. I do have a memory of mother hitting me so hard with a long plastic ruler. The ruler became 2 shorter versions of itself and I ended up crying so hard, not because of the physical pain, which wasn't that much, but more for feeling pity for my poor unloved self. Yet still, I can't conjure up any memory of Bobo doing any physical harms upon me.

Anyway, back to the glorious ugly hairstyle. It was my ninth birthday, and a party was to be held at Kentucky Fried Chicken that evening. My relatives and my school friends and teachers were going to be there. I don't think I was particularly excited about it. Never much a fan of party even when I was a kid. I remember it to be a Sunday, Bobo visited our house after church, and she decided that my hair needed to be a little bit on the glamorous side for the party. So I was told to sit in front of her, facing the TV, while she skillfully combed and parted my hair to 20-30 small square areas. For each section, she would fold my hair to the back and tied them with a rubber band, not a hair band mind you, but the regular industrial rubber band. In short, she was giving me a temporary perm. I was too afraid to refuse, and my cry of help look to my mother was only replied with a knowing and sorry look.

The nap I was told to have by Bobo that afternoon was full of discomfort, the only way I would not feel any crushing pain on my skull was if I placed my face on the pillow, and sadly that position could not last long since one still requires some breathing to remain alive.

Finally, an hour and a half to the party, those rubber bands were one by one yanked away from my head. Along with the process were the extraction of many strands of my hair and several drops of tears induced by the pain.

The result was a jumble of unruly curly hair on top of my head, pointing to every possible directions. After a few puffing and shaping movements by Bobo, I finally looked somewhat presentable and if I wanted to, I would have been able to blend in real well to the gathering of housewives in our neighborhood. To add to my misery, mother put a decorative hair clip on top of my puffy hair, the hair clip has, glued on top of it, a mini rattan hat with a circling of red ribbon and a few flowers on the right side. To finish it of, she smeared a bright red lipstick on my lips.

When we arrived at KFC, I almost cried when I realized that my curly puffy hair, my small hat, and my cherry red lips made me not unlike the clown of my own birthday party, sans the rainbow hair color thankfully, mine was still uniformly black. I was doing the whole emo thing, hating the world and everything that lived in it, but then I caught the look of my Bobo, a wee bit tired, but full of smile and laughter, what a beautiful sight that was. The young me could not articulate the warm feeling that I immediately felt afterward. Looking back, it must have been a glimpse of understanding that there were more important things in this world than how my hair looks, and that Bobo's well intention and the resulted happiness for contributing to her granddaughter's birthday party was more important than anything else at that moment. That's when I said to heck with it, put on my smile, and went on with the party. And that's also why I would go on with life and wouldn't kill myself after every bad haircut that I have and would have in the future.

P.S: Not looking at the mirror helps as well.