I walked into a hair salon after almost a year. Last time around, I had to explain what I wanted done to my hair in a language I only understood sometimes, so I figured this time around it would be much easier.
I was the only customer, and the place was missing its chaotic, boisterous chatter. As a kid, I remember trying to figure out what everyone was so excited about. What I did observe though was that the bigger the perm, the more dominance granted over the conversation, but I could be wrong. What I did know was that I actually kind of missed how it used to be.
I decided not to read the book I brought with me, and to instead play along with the magazines on the shelves, even though I knew I’d regret my decision. I found the English copies at the bottom, but they were all stuck in 2014, which was still more recent than the posters on the walls featuring models with hairdos from the 80s. I flipped through the pages not understanding what I was hoping to find.
“Married ah?” she asks predictably. Some things never change, that’s just the way it is.
“I don’t want to lah, aunty.”
She smiles. “My daughter also not married. As long as she is happy, is okay lah.”
I’ve always found it strange to look into the mirror- it’s almost as if the person I am looking at is a stranger, albeit somewhat familiar.
And then it was all over, and as usual, the end result wasn’t what I had in mind, but I knew what I had to do to fix it to my liking, over the next year or so.