Wednesday, July 8, 2009

A Rooster's Tale

When viewed from the side, it looks like a cross between a parrot, a hedgehog, and a rooster. Meet it head-on frontal, its a swoosh of broom swipe trimmed to resemble a gigantic paint brush. The back facade is fine art at its best, it is an installation art form made up of an entangled load of farm hay. It is designed to make parents nag and propel hair clay companies to another year of indecent profit. Yes, this is my new haircut and the reason to my sore arms and neck. Arms because I have to spend five minutes every fucking morning pushing those damn strands up so that it will not be mistaken as unkept grass from Lim Chu Kang Cemetery. Neck because laying on a head rest is now history as doing so will result in forfeiting all the morning efforts in styling the hair. Vanity has its price.

Creative people can sometimes snap. Inspirations come and the sense of adventure clouds practicability. I am talking about my hairstylist, not me, who coincidently shares the same name as I do, Ken. (I will like to be seen as the victim here) I know I can be adventurous when it comes to personal style of grooming. Like the time when I had my hair touching down on my shoulders that resulted in an SIA air stewardess mistakening me as a "miss" instead of "mr", and the auntie who offered me to co-seat with her on the bus and then frozed dumbfolded when I turn to meet her eye to eye. She probably had at that moment met the "ugliest female" on the planet. I have done so many different hair styles all these years but never this rooster head. This is on par with the punk level. This positioned me alongside the "Ah Beng" demographic. Hang a gold chain on my stiffened neck and pop a cigarette in between my lips and I can start collecting protection money.

It was so bad my adored daughter could not recognise me when I first came home after the snipe. She had her mouth wide opened with an unsure look for a good ten seconds or so and then turned towards her mum for confirmation whether the punkster would be her father. That repeatedly happened for a few times before she finally got settled down and resigned to the fact that her vain dad is a hopeless case of a 35 year old man trying to look a punky 25 years in age, and obviously one who sucked at it.

"You look like a Lao (old) Ah Beng!" - My mum's comment.

"What kind of hairstyle is that wearing on your son's head?" - My dad's comment towards my mum.

"This hairstyle is ok. On it's own." - My wife's comment.

"And certainly not the kinda hairstyle for a man of your age." - My wife added.

"Siao Kia (crazy punk). One of those crazy idiots on Harley Davidson bikes." My wife further added.

There were other hurls of unkindly comments which i shan't continue to elaborate. They were all under the same category of insults and verbal abuse anyway. Truth is, to a certain degree I have to admit these accusations sounded all so true. I am no
longer in my freakin teens to slice stares in a parrot hairdo, and my wrinkles definitely doesn't match the wavy spikes. My "chao bin" (smelly face in hokkien) escalate the "Beng" factor even further. So, am I doom??

Nah. More than a week had passed since the Ah Beng invasion to the household. The world had finally resumed it's norm. Because my mum had apparently been hoaxed. (I told her a lie, that I would trim the parrot off my crown). As for my dad, comment no. 2 never left my mum's ear but it has been turned into a deaf ear anyway. My wife? She's liking the hairdo now. All woman fancy a little bad ass attitude in a man anyway right. And that is the reason why girls fall for bad boys right. Well, yes, of course... except that I look like an over aged 'Beng' instead of a suave 'Bad Boy' in his masculine persona. I merely said that to humor my own pathetic self. So don't you all go puke in the toilet bowl.

My nonsensical analogy aside, matter of factly, it is a simple case of getting used to. Over time, hype and shock spins away with the rotating hour and minute hand eventually. So, the moral of the story? It doesn't matter what the heck you did to your hair, skin it, dye it pinkish with a dash of electric blue, or model it after a porcupine and garnish it with a rooster's tail, all verbal insults will die away over time. Instead, go with NIKE's gungho attitude, "Just fuckin' Do It!"

And this is just what I am going to do next up, the porcupine head! Join me anyone?

Sorry about the 'F's. Eh hello! You are talking about "Ah Beng" here leh!!

*I wrote this on a bullshitting myself context. I ain't gonna do another funk head. I am just venting my insecurities away. I have to give credit to the missus who had been a kind support so far on this issue although a little too shocking for her to handle initially. I am also beginning to like this hairstyle of mine. Did I mentioned I will be coloring it at the salon tomorrow? Just pray that the outcome isn't a chin cheong gold!! So I guess the true moral of the story is, ultimately I am still a vain bastard!! HAHAHA!