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Bad Hair Day

September 27, 2015

“Spiky? Not too short? With patterns on the side? Okay!”

The victim was sitting on a kiddie ride. A female hairstylist grabbed a hair clipper, her assistant was busy blowing bubbles and squeezing a squeaky toy.

He was a baby of approximately 15 months, still cannot utter any word properly. Her mom was sitting in the back, busy Whatsapping. The little guy did not have much hair. He was clean and looked well-cared. But he certainly was not the ubercute baby.

I never went to a beauty salon for a haircut until my late mother fell ill and passed away a few years later. Throughout my childhood and early adulthood, she was our private stylist. I did not have any preference when it comes to haircut. She would cut my hair short. Boy short. But not crew cut. These days, a new jargon was invented for my childhood style: Pixie look.

My mother had never wasted a week worth of grocery money for my brother’s and my haircut. Whenever we need a haircut, she would ask us to sit on the floor, grabbed her rattan bag where she kept her hair cutting kits and started working on our heads. One by one of course. We are not some two-headed dragons. Although more than a few times we acted like one 😀

None of us needed diversion such as toys, kiddie rides, bubbles, moreover a set of PlayStation game for us to sit still and receive the haircut.

My late mother took a haircut course. She also made all my stuffed dolls. She cooked our food, although her staple was mostly boring since she had to save money. Had she taken sewing course and immersed herself in serious gardening, we would have been self-sufficient like farm families.

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