I have never been good at getting haircuts. One of my famous outbursts from childhood was at the hairdressers. I was probably five at the time and my mother always let me grow my hair long. But after way too much Tang one morning, I begged her to take me to the hairdressers to cut my hair short for the first time ever. As my locks were snipped off - and as the buzz from Tang wore off - I realised I looked like a boy. I jumped off the seat, grabbed the long locks of hair that were once on my head and mourned their loss in howls and sobs.

Twenty years on, nothing much has changed. Although I do exercise a fraction more decorum now.

Recently, le
Garçon and I got our hair cut together. He was scooted off to a woman named Stella who had very bad teeth, in addition to some flirtatious apprentices who cooed over him. Meanwhile, I was sent to a skeletal Asian man with blonde spiky hair (aside: I do not trust Asians with peroxide hair).

"Aiya,your head...your head smell bad," he said as he combed my just-washed hair to figure out a suitable style.

"Oh." Really how does one respond to the claim that one's head smells bad? "It's just been washed by that girl over there," I nodded to the direction of the apprentice who was running her fingers through le
Garçon's hair. "And I washed it earlier in the day too."

"No. Hair no smell. Head smell. Scalp smell." He was adamant.

He walked briskly away and came back with a tub of something. "Use this. You need this."

I balked at the 25-dollar price tag. And also smelled something rotten. On him.

"Oh, I have this at home." I lied.

"Then you use it. You should buy, you need a lot."

"I think I will just finish the one I have at home first," I said. Pfft, I ain't giving him an extra 25 bucks that day. I was adamant too.

"Whatever."

As he snipped away locks of my hair, he started sighing again.

"Wavy. Hair too wavy. Natural wave no good. You should get it properly permed. More structure." He started up again.

"I read in Vogue the other day that naturally wavy hair is all the rage at the moment. Straight hair, last season. Permed hair, five years ago." I argued.

"Your hair is a mess. No structure. You perm, still look natural."

"I just wanted it cut today. NO PERM."

He quietens down for a while, though still sighing as he snips.

"Wavy hair. Hard to cut. Next time don't come to me to cut."

"Bitch," I muttered under my breath. He still had the scissors to make a mess of my head.

I thought the blow drying part would be better with the noise to drown out his sighing. It was good for a while, until -

"PPEW! YOUR SCALP SMELL BAD! ALL THE BAD SMELL FLOW UP FROM THE BLOW DRY. PPEEW!" He screamed.

I stared back at him in horror. I have great hair. I am known for great wavy hair that does not smell.
I wanted to grab that pair of scissors and snip him into shreds. Alas, I have more decorum now, I'm not five and I don't cry over spilt hair anymore. I walked away from that chair without another word with my fabulous good-smelling head held high.

"What happened? You looked like you were about to cry on that seat," le
Garçon asked as we were walking out.

"He hurt my hair's feelings."

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