It’s growing. Stop asking.
I’ve been badgered with the same question for the past two months.
“Why did you cut your hair short?”
Usually, this would be followed by a disappointed sigh, a noted shake of the head or the more polite continuous staring at the mass of short, dried, though stylishly spiky dead rat perched on my head (Which evidently, I refer to as my hair).
In my defense however, I did not intentionally decide to impersonate a Korean actor and subsequently failed miserably at doing so. Here’s a few snippets of conversation between myself and the hair stylist whom decided so abruptly to make me the butt of all hair jokes.
“What hairstyle do you want?”
“I don’t know. Anything? Just make it short.”
“Yeah, like real short. I want to save shampoo.” $_$
“Are you sure? Short?”
“But how short?”
“Just… short lah. Everything else is up to you.”
“Yeah, but what kind of style? With bangs, or with longer side hair, or longer tail? What style?”
“Err… short… style?” >_>
By then he probably gave up soliciting anymore hairstyle suggestions from the girl with the fashion sense of a lamp post and just started slashing away. At the speed he was going, he looked a bit like Edward Scissorshands, only with more blood in his face and, if possible, more gel in his hair. The spikes in his hair could’ve held up three bricks and half an elephant.
After hair-spraying and waxing my hair for what seemed like hours, he charged me RM48 and happily I got back to my college bearing a lighter-feeling head and yes, a heavily hair-sprayed and waxed dead rat.
I thought it would be a happy ending from there on, but no.
I saved on shampoo but I had to now spend on hair wax.
I had to style my hair before going to class because apparently, people have a penchant for commenting when your hair looks like it’s been electrocuted (That’s how it looks like pre-waxed).
People stare at my chest very often to verify my sex, and don’t bother doing it surreptitiously; o_o –> O_O
Though sometimes, the more polite breed of people in our society would simply approach yours truly, asking “Excuse me, are you a He or She?”
And sometimes, people whom think that voices don’t carry over one metre in distance, would barely pass me before turning towards their companion and asking audibly “Did you see its chest? Did it have any?”
To answer that; Yes. I do have a chest. And yes, it is flatter than Keira Knightley’s… ahem.
I thought it was amusing the first month, but after the umpteenth chest-staring and I-can-still-hear-you-morons side whispers, the novelty wore off and it got slightly annoying. Not to mention the bashing I got from my sister who’d lecture on how it’s a sin in Islam to be mistaken as a boy.
Anyway, it’s a bit longer now so everyone can lay off my back once it reaches my shoulders. I’d cut my hair short again just because of its practical properties, but unless I manage a way to grow three chest sizes overnight, I’m going to have to find cheaper shampoo alternatives that doesn’t leave my scalp with a burning sensation.