It’s all about me, me, me.

Most of the time I like to write about other folks. But sometimes there’s this need, this urge, this unmanageable impulse to just yak on about, wait till you hear it… myself. Hehe. Today’s one of those times.

The thing is, I got a new haircut yesterday. One I shouldn’t have had. One that came out totally different to what I expected. One that makes my head look exactly like a coconut! Or Maruko. Or simply a girl with a bad haircut. I’ve tried to picture myself styling it à la Katie Holmes. But unless I could somehow morph myself into her slim figure, with her pretty face, and her beautiful eyes, and her soft wavy hair that sits gorgeously around the ears just so, FAT CHANCE!

My favourite hairdresser — whom I’ve trusted my tresses with for the last 4 years, did a pretty lousy job this time. She even got my fringe all wrong. And what is the world coming to if you can’t trust your hairdresser to cut your fringe right, I ask you? Oh what are we gonna do? But well, I still love her. I just think she’s temporary lost her charm. And whether that was due to the fact that she is 7-month pregnant and must have been tired, or that I should have made it clear through out the session that I wanted JUST A TRIM, or that short hair is a lot harder to style than longer hair, is unclear. But does it matter? The end result is still the same: I now have a frizzy coconut swivelling around on my neck. Sexy!

But one thing that surprised me, apart from seeing a tropical fruit staring back at me in the mirror, was that I was NOT even upset! Seven years ago it would have brought buckets and buckets of self-pitying tears. I would have vowed to never go back to that hairdresser. I would have hidden my head under a beanie all the time. But now, I pulled stupid faces in the mirror and cracked jokes with m’ about my own silly hair. I’ve also been planning the outfits to go with it — maybe something a bit edgier, quirkier, less predictable. (But no, I’ll stop short at wearing a Maruko bow, thank you very much.) I generally don’t give much of a toss.

That’s one of the best things about growing old(er), I reckon. You become more at ease with your appearance, your abilities, your whole self. You learn to put things into proper perspective. You also get better at problem solving — no point in mourning at something that already happened, instead, plan to make the most of the situation.

Packing on the years doesn’t seem too bad sometimes, does it?



2 thoughts on “It’s all about me, me, me.

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