Much Ado about a 'Do

I got my hair cut today. At Costa Coffee I saw a barrista with a fashionable, perfectly cut style, and used her reference for a place to get my own hair cut. I researched my preferred hairstyle on the internet, and printed out a large clear picture for the hairstylist to copy. I did it. It’s done. There’s no going back in time.

I have not had this hairstyle since I was 19 years old. I’m not sure if I should cry or go start a rock band. I asked the guy what picture he was looking at to cut my hair. I pointed out that in the picture I brought, the elegant, sleek style’s shortest point was way below the chin line, practically at the bottom of the neck. Then I pointed to the mirror and showed him that the shortest point on my new haircut (bangs not counted) was at the level of my crow’s feet. It took it a minute to sink in, but finally the guy said “oh.” I could have shown him a picture of Mimi and I would probably have gotten the same haircut that I got today. I could have shown him a picture of a chocolate bar and gotten the same haircut. He just decided what kind of haircut he wanted to give, and went for it, with no regard to the picture I brought, my age, my dignity, or anything I said. After a moment, he defended himself and said he was making it look more fluffy. Fluffy? At what point did the word “fluffy” enter this conversation? I looked around to see if I had accidentally gone into a dog parlour by mistake. I smiled and pretended to be happy. No use crying over butchered tresses. He started to cut the bangs. The only thing that could possibly make this haircut worse were bangs that were halfway up my forehead. That would result in me having to wear a wig, and since all wigs in China are black, I couldn’t take any chances. I told him to leave the bangs long, which means I pretty much look a bit like a sheepdog.

I rushed home and googled “mullet.” I am not sure what a mullet is, but I know if you have one you are scum of the fashion world and people will tease you mercilessly…and you have to wear tight jeans, smoke, and name your child Miley, none of which are appropriate for a 40-something single woman in my line of work. Well, I don’t really know anyone in town, so I don’t fear my friends making fun of me. I fear no one will want to make friends with me in the first place though. If I have a mullet, I’m going to have to hang out at video arcades until my locks grow out.

I checked out the online photos. Whew, not a mullet! Looks like I’m sporting a shag instead. Did you know there are 4.1 million hits for the word “mullet” on google, and that entire websites are devoted to this style? Shag only has 227,000 hits. If you are into mullets, you can even join the mulletia. One website says, “Wearing a mullet makes you look like a complete and total fool, and instantly makes you much poorer and less intelligent.” Wow, am I ever glad I got a shag instead!

I walk over to the mirror and gasp. I am not exaggerating when I say that I thought someone let Andy Gibb (God rest his soul) into my house, because he was staring back at me from the other side of the mirror. That’s what every modern woman really wants, to look like she belongs on a 1970's BeeGee’s album cover. This probably explains why I have been singing “Staying Alive” all afternoon and dancing in the hallway; Mimi finds the whole song and dance routine rather fascinating, especially since I am sick, have completely lost my voice, and Mimi no longer recognizes me. “Ay, ay, ay, ay, staying alive, staying alive.”

I go back to the computer and google “Andy Gibb shag.” There are 61,000 websites that feature information about Andy’s shag haircut. I don’t want to look like a BeeGee anymore. I heat up the electric rollers.

My hair looks better all curly. Maybe if the hairdresser had known I had hot rollers, he would not have felt the need to use scissors to make my hair fluffy. I’m not too upset. Hair grows at a rate of about half an inch a month, so by this time next year my hair ought to be looking smokin’!

Images of Bamboo Forest

Leaving Bedrock

Times change, and ya know, even the Flintstones had to move on. On September 20th, I moved away from Bedrock to move to my new home in Bamboo Forest. I was sad along the entire 8-hour bus ride, but the sadness was lifted the moment I arrived in the modern, garden-like, historical metropolis city of Bamboo Forest.

Bamboo Forest has a population about the same size as Hong Kong's, more if you count the immigrant population that cannot according to law call BF their permanent address. But BF has more space than Hong Kong, so it's buildings need not be so close together nor so tall.

The first and best change: an elevator. Mimi didn't like it at all the first day, but when she learned the useful purpose of the elevator and the fact that it allowed her more trips out to the grass during the day, she quickly began to love the elevator. While we are going down, she body slams different sides of the elevator in a sort of victory celebration. Mimi doesn't get on the elevator when other people are on it though. There is no rule against it, but we want to maintain friendships. Mimi tickled a little girl with her teeth our last day in Bedrock, and the frightened parents took their daughter in for a series of rabies shots because they didn't trust my little booklets claiming my dog had a rabies' vaccine. (Mimi's teeth did not even break the skin.) Our departure from Bedrock was, it seems, well-timed.

The second and best change (two bests? yes!): lettuce. After twelve years of no salads, I have become a salad freak. The little grocery store here at my apartment complex sells it, and I can't get enough of it. But I probably will eventually get enough of it and start to hate salads. I think that's going to take a long time though.

The photo is from my apartment complex grounds. It is peaceful to walk in this apartment complex. The neighbors in Bedrock were sweet, but they were also busybodies, always in my business, criticizing me for using my air-conditioner in 100 degree weather, and stuff like that. Here, everyone uses their air-conditioners and no one hassles me when I go walking. I no longer need nerves of steel to leave my home. It's hard to believe I am in the same country still!

Bad Fisherman

Wow, it's been nearly three months since I lasted posted something on this blog. It's all because my dog, who was fishing for compliments, didn't get any! Well, finally she got one (thanks Madre), and then another, so her tail's a-wagging with pride once again. We now will resume our correspondence with the outside world.