On Sunday, I went for my second haircut in a month at my friendly (and chio) hairstylist’s. Before the last haircut, I had been going to the barber’s for a convenient but nosso nice crewcut. But you know, you have to pamper yourself every now and again. And my hair grows really quickly.
So, for a little bit more than what I pay the barber, I had a shampoo and scalp massage by some funky dude whose name I didn’t get again, and a stylish haircut by the chioest hairstylist you’ll ever see this side of Orchard Road. Actually, she could give me a Mohawk and I still wouldn’t mind. Or notice. Until I got home and my mother were to ask, ‘why you look like red indian?’
Cheryl the Chio started the usual hairstylist/barbershop conversation, but steered clear of politics (because this place, damned stylo one), asking me what movies I had seen lately, whether I had been clubbing, and asking why I didn’t go to the Zouk 20th Anniversary Bash.
I yammered away, as you would to a chio hairstylist who asked you those things: Went to Mohd. Sultan instead lah, had teh lah, nowsaday cannot drink lah, too old to party lah.
Then Cheryl suddenly asked, ‘Eh, before you came back here last month, you went to the barber for a crewcut right?’
I said yes.
‘Because you have a fragile area’
‘WHAT YOU MEAN FRAGILE AREA?’, I asked, so loudly that the other customers turned to look, causing their respective stylists to go tsk (or ‘zhk’, depending on whether you’re a pinyinophile or a wade-gilesophile. Gotta get these things right, you know?)’ because they nearly cut their customers’ ears off.
‘There’s one part of your hair that grows more slowly than the rest’.
‘Oh no! Beijing 101 time!’
‘Don’t worry. I style for you and give that area more volume’.
Looks empty? It’s not. Everyone’s hiding below the window sill.