I had a strange sentimental feeling inside my gut while having my hair cut.
Snip! Snip! Snip! went the scissors blades as they cut through my years of dark glory.
Seeing the strands of hair dropping to the floor is like watching black snowflakes falling, waiting on the ground to melt in the blood-coloured tiles. Each dark strand had been a piece of myself. A piece of who I was, and who I have become. Now all these hairs were cut away; separated from me... never to be seen again. Kind of like an eternal departure. Death of some kind. It felt so strange thinking about this.
Snip! Snip! Snip! the scissors blades skimmed across the back of my neck. I always feel nervous when that spot is touched. Not only it makes me feel vulnerable, I also have psychological trauma regarding the back of my neck.
When I was a kid and Dad still lived with us, he used to give me regular haircuts. But Dad is such a lousy barber. One day he cut the skin on the back of my neck by accident and that was the first time I saw a grown up man panic like crazy. Dad thought soy sauce would make everything better and so he rubbed it on my wound. If you know what it feels like to have salt rubbed on a wound, then you'll understand the hell I went through at that time.
My trauma didn't end there. While Mama took me out with her on a shopping spree, a leather-clad punk who looked like an Amy Search wanna-be flicked his cigarette butt away and had a bad aim. The cigarette butt fell into my shirt collar and gave me a third degree burn. Talk about pain in the neck. Mama practically had that guy torn off. This is why I hate smokers, and the reason why I don't smoke myself.
The male hairdresser put down the scissors and gave a final finishing with his comb. "You can put put on your glasses now," he said after brushing off some hair from my face and neck. I put on my glasses to look at the new Amel Hanan. The hairdresser recommended me this hairstyle:
"Is this okay?" I asked him, unsure if I hadn't made a disastrous decision by letting the hairdresser decide on my haircut. "It looks kinda emo."
"It suits your face." The hairdresser replied before quickly shoving me off to the counter for the tab.
Emo suits my face?
Snip! Snip! Snip! went the scissors blades as they cut through my years of dark glory.
Seeing the strands of hair dropping to the floor is like watching black snowflakes falling, waiting on the ground to melt in the blood-coloured tiles. Each dark strand had been a piece of myself. A piece of who I was, and who I have become. Now all these hairs were cut away; separated from me... never to be seen again. Kind of like an eternal departure. Death of some kind. It felt so strange thinking about this.
Snip! Snip! Snip! the scissors blades skimmed across the back of my neck. I always feel nervous when that spot is touched. Not only it makes me feel vulnerable, I also have psychological trauma regarding the back of my neck.
When I was a kid and Dad still lived with us, he used to give me regular haircuts. But Dad is such a lousy barber. One day he cut the skin on the back of my neck by accident and that was the first time I saw a grown up man panic like crazy. Dad thought soy sauce would make everything better and so he rubbed it on my wound. If you know what it feels like to have salt rubbed on a wound, then you'll understand the hell I went through at that time.
My trauma didn't end there. While Mama took me out with her on a shopping spree, a leather-clad punk who looked like an Amy Search wanna-be flicked his cigarette butt away and had a bad aim. The cigarette butt fell into my shirt collar and gave me a third degree burn. Talk about pain in the neck. Mama practically had that guy torn off. This is why I hate smokers, and the reason why I don't smoke myself.
The male hairdresser put down the scissors and gave a final finishing with his comb. "You can put put on your glasses now," he said after brushing off some hair from my face and neck. I put on my glasses to look at the new Amel Hanan. The hairdresser recommended me this hairstyle:
"Is this okay?" I asked him, unsure if I hadn't made a disastrous decision by letting the hairdresser decide on my haircut. "It looks kinda emo."
"It suits your face." The hairdresser replied before quickly shoving me off to the counter for the tab.
Emo suits my face?
"MASIH" BY FLOP POPPY is playing in my mind today.
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