Day Zero of EOYs

Yes, I hear your cries.

You are the boy who has the bad haircut, emergant acne and 5 year-old-bag. After getting a haircut, do not kick a fuss at the woman has never cut your hair properly because she hates the texture of your hair, do not glare at the toddler wearing the pink overalls giggling loudly, and most importantly, do not forget to remove all valuables from the bag compartment behind the mirror. Hold your head up high and ignore the people staring. Sway your arms nonchalently because you do not care.

Walk the longer way back because you have your sister's music with you. Feel sorry for yourself because someone stole your iPod 2 years ago. You have waited too long to buy a new one — you are now the less cooler older brother, wearing last season's spectacles, in the triple science stream, Student Leader, chronic palm-sweater, and ohmygawd, in the same school. The bag you carry on your shoulders is old and grey, so walk with a slower gait because having a slight spring in your step would make the rusty zippers jingle as if you were a walking Salvation Army christmastime goodwill bin on tour.

Return home but do not expect to hear anything. Your grandparents will be watching the television. Do not expect them to say anything; Spy Kids 2 is showing. As you close the door, you hear the familiar clasp of the padlock.
— "I like your hair" says your Grandmother.
Do not reply because you know it is a lie. Latch the the door softly.
— "I like your hair" she says again. Be grateful. She could have laughed.

Enter the study room with a smile on your face. Anticipate the pregnant silence lingering like choking cigarette smoke before someone sniggers.
— "I think you should wash your hair" says your father. The comment is oozing with sympathy.

Do not storm out of the room. Grab a towel and take a shower. Use your favourite shampoo. Rinse. Dry. Look at the reflection in the mirror. He looks at you as if you are to blame for this stupid haircut, this confusion of buzz-cuts and layers. Remind yourself that there is no time for melodrama, because the evil blue social studies textbook beckons. It is on the blue table, in the room with the blue walls that have since faded to become grotesque shades of lilac and white.

Look at the mirror again. Be convinced that the person staring widely back, sclera and all, should be the one partaking in the shame. Sweep your hair back. Brush it back down. Your hair will never in perfect symbiosis with your, nor will in syncronize itself according to your moods. Try as you wish, apply sticky sweet slimy lychee scented hair wax, mould it, squish it, swear— you have come to the conclusion that you have the worst hair in the world and perhaps the woman at the hairdresser's would be unanimous in your thinking and sink into the swelling depths of self-pity as kelp and dead plankton bury you into the murky beds of peat and moss.



(Haha, just wanted to have some fun before English Paper 1 tomorrow. It the bastard child of Julie Orringer's 'Note to Sixth-Grade Self' and Haruki Murakamiesque moods. The ratatouille was definitely better today—after my grandmother microwaved it -.- My dad was like, 'there's something missing' and accused the brinjal of having a texture that was less meaty than expected.)