I was running my fingers through my hair, looking at the ends and shafts, and as far as my eyes could see.
On a self-conducted analysis of my crowning glory, this is what I came out with :-
1. Texture : Softlike, drylike, still hair-like with a hint feeling of hay.
2. Length : 2 inches below the shoulder, but appears unbelievably sexy-long if styled at salons.
3. Thickness : Thick on the front and back, less on the sides, and may appear thin and limp if subject to abundance of conditioner.
4. Colour : This is where I’m at a loss for words. All shades of brown, auburn, blondish highlights, gold and absolutely no trace of black.
If I were a blue-eyed Caucasian, the colour description of my hair is next to normal. Pity, I’m not Caucasian, and neither am I normal.
When I was in primary school, leafing through my sister’s glossy Cosmopolitan magazines, I was always in awe of the leggy models, and the air of sophistication and grander-than-thou image that were projected. I assumed that it was every little girl’s dream to be a model, and was painfully ignorant most of the time of my physical limitations and less than generous gene-pool allocations. I obviously thought I had an advantage over ‘other’ girls - I was tall. Everybody knows that being tall is the prerequisite of any model-wannabe…Its just my luck that the advantage ended there.
Apart from being generously tall, I was generously endowed in other areas too. I wouldn’t mind if it was just the ‘booty n hootie’ parts, but no, it had to spread to all areas in between and all around, resulting into one glob of mass meat. Even if I were to cease eating for months, suck in my stomach and hold my breath till I turn grotesque blue, I will not be able to obtain the lithe, graceful figures of the cover girls. I know that and it’s not for lack of trying.
Since that was my major downfall, I couldn’t care less about the other ‘trivial’ matters… that you have to be stunningly attractive in person and sickeningly photogenic too. I had all the must-have attributes of a live model checked and crossed… (Cough! Cough! Ehem!) … crossed out, I mean. That leaves me with one final ace, which I know is definitely achievable.
I can at least have model hair. Peering through all the pages, most models if not all, had long, silky, bouncy, coloured hair. Black is not a colour. Neither is grey nor white. For me to achieve the status of having modelesque hair, it had to be of colour. There and then, I planted my ambition to grow and transform my hair to be in the running for the Next-Top-Model Hair. The first instant that I could, (it happened the time I completed secondary school) I had worked tirelessly to achieve that end – and I have yet to stop.
My hair has been bleached, dyed, coloured, permed (to drastic results), hot-air blasted, treated, twisted and tortured. The amount of stress that it had been subjected to, put it this way, if it had its own way, it would scramble off my head and chain itself to a tree with a giant banner “Stop Cruelty” plastered across.
Ekekekekekeke! But it can’t do that, can it? Kekekekekke! (Evil laugh, slanty eyes, sloppy sneer… oh what the hoot… eerie classical music, cold drafts, screams in the background…the works…)
“Where did you do your hair” (when it’s only been blown dried at home)
“Such nice colours, you must give me the number of your hairdresser” (maybe, if I think you’re nice)
“Your hair always looks like you’ve had it styled at the salon” (It hasn’t, but since you think it is, you’re now my BFF)
Added bonus, my father thinks I’m blessed with original brown hair from birth – the poor dear…
People, people, people… With all those kind remarks thrown at me again and again, you think I would stop and think how miserable my hair feels? Think again. I have however, detected some form of rebellion, bouncy slowly regressing to lifeless, strong strands turning brittle, shiny downgraded to dry and damaged. Poor unfortunate, tortured souls of my stresses (no pun intended) – I’m not done with you yet. If it’s a battle you want, a battle you shall get. Lets make it cold and bloody too.
Nothing gets between me and my perasan-model-wannabe hair. And if you think it’s a fraction of my freaky imagination, you haven’t caught a whiff of my passionfruit soaked and cranberry scented lightly oil-sprayed hair, sexily arranged against a white Damask pillow, the myriad of gold and brown hues of each strand offset against the white cotton…
U know what I mean…
Ekekekekekekekeke!!!!!!
On a self-conducted analysis of my crowning glory, this is what I came out with :-
1. Texture : Softlike, drylike, still hair-like with a hint feeling of hay.
2. Length : 2 inches below the shoulder, but appears unbelievably sexy-long if styled at salons.
3. Thickness : Thick on the front and back, less on the sides, and may appear thin and limp if subject to abundance of conditioner.
4. Colour : This is where I’m at a loss for words. All shades of brown, auburn, blondish highlights, gold and absolutely no trace of black.
If I were a blue-eyed Caucasian, the colour description of my hair is next to normal. Pity, I’m not Caucasian, and neither am I normal.
When I was in primary school, leafing through my sister’s glossy Cosmopolitan magazines, I was always in awe of the leggy models, and the air of sophistication and grander-than-thou image that were projected. I assumed that it was every little girl’s dream to be a model, and was painfully ignorant most of the time of my physical limitations and less than generous gene-pool allocations. I obviously thought I had an advantage over ‘other’ girls - I was tall. Everybody knows that being tall is the prerequisite of any model-wannabe…Its just my luck that the advantage ended there.
Apart from being generously tall, I was generously endowed in other areas too. I wouldn’t mind if it was just the ‘booty n hootie’ parts, but no, it had to spread to all areas in between and all around, resulting into one glob of mass meat. Even if I were to cease eating for months, suck in my stomach and hold my breath till I turn grotesque blue, I will not be able to obtain the lithe, graceful figures of the cover girls. I know that and it’s not for lack of trying.
Since that was my major downfall, I couldn’t care less about the other ‘trivial’ matters… that you have to be stunningly attractive in person and sickeningly photogenic too. I had all the must-have attributes of a live model checked and crossed… (Cough! Cough! Ehem!) … crossed out, I mean. That leaves me with one final ace, which I know is definitely achievable.
I can at least have model hair. Peering through all the pages, most models if not all, had long, silky, bouncy, coloured hair. Black is not a colour. Neither is grey nor white. For me to achieve the status of having modelesque hair, it had to be of colour. There and then, I planted my ambition to grow and transform my hair to be in the running for the Next-Top-Model Hair. The first instant that I could, (it happened the time I completed secondary school) I had worked tirelessly to achieve that end – and I have yet to stop.
My hair has been bleached, dyed, coloured, permed (to drastic results), hot-air blasted, treated, twisted and tortured. The amount of stress that it had been subjected to, put it this way, if it had its own way, it would scramble off my head and chain itself to a tree with a giant banner “Stop Cruelty” plastered across.
Ekekekekekeke! But it can’t do that, can it? Kekekekekke! (Evil laugh, slanty eyes, sloppy sneer… oh what the hoot… eerie classical music, cold drafts, screams in the background…the works…)
“Where did you do your hair” (when it’s only been blown dried at home)
“Such nice colours, you must give me the number of your hairdresser” (maybe, if I think you’re nice)
“Your hair always looks like you’ve had it styled at the salon” (It hasn’t, but since you think it is, you’re now my BFF)
Added bonus, my father thinks I’m blessed with original brown hair from birth – the poor dear…
People, people, people… With all those kind remarks thrown at me again and again, you think I would stop and think how miserable my hair feels? Think again. I have however, detected some form of rebellion, bouncy slowly regressing to lifeless, strong strands turning brittle, shiny downgraded to dry and damaged. Poor unfortunate, tortured souls of my stresses (no pun intended) – I’m not done with you yet. If it’s a battle you want, a battle you shall get. Lets make it cold and bloody too.
Nothing gets between me and my perasan-model-wannabe hair. And if you think it’s a fraction of my freaky imagination, you haven’t caught a whiff of my passionfruit soaked and cranberry scented lightly oil-sprayed hair, sexily arranged against a white Damask pillow, the myriad of gold and brown hues of each strand offset against the white cotton…
U know what I mean…
Ekekekekekekekeke!!!!!!
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