The Sadako Project

Today was the day I decided to take down the long, tired locks of my hair. Even though some people would envy the volume of it all (which is more than what a calculator can calculate), they don't understand the sheer amount of weight it carries. Not so heavy that you don't see anything beneath eye-level, but still, you can feel the heat it traps. Frustrating.

Hence my trip down with my mom to cut hair. The woman who washed my hair took her chance to dig all her nails into my scalp. I figured it cleaned her nails more than it did my scalp. Practically scratched everything off, cells included. Extra clean. >.> The other woman who declared my hair too messy to see any style said that it should be blown dry first before she could give her 'professional opinion'.

Then began the Sadako project. My hair, fringe and in all its entirety was blowned with high heat straight down, such that it looked like Sadako perched atop the salon seat getting her hair done. With the cape thing hanging down my shoulders, it looked more ambigious.

That said, I basked in the glory of anonymity, and stared boldly at everyone else in the salon. Naturally, people seeking the pit-fire of death were staring without holding back. Should I be the original Sadako, a curse would have been put in place. Meanwhile, that woman commented relentlessly that I have too much hair and how nice it would be to have it soft-permed. I smiled and looked as if she was talking about some stinking octopus she ate. She gave it up after I repeatedly gave her the 'I pity your octopus' face.

The cut was alright, in the end. The styling was not. She gave her version of what was hot, and it turned out all wrong. But for her sake, and for letting me enjoy Sadako moments earlier, I let her flatten my fringe and turn it into the slick and shiny gel soaked indian hair. Pleased and gleefully, she seeked for feedback, "Is it nice? You like it?" The beginnings of a pained look was showing, so I switched it to a more DELIGHTED look. "Hmm, it's not bad."

I'm not a liar by nature, but there exists the White Lie, ain't there? While waiting for my mom (who ditched me halfway) to pay for the cut, I hid somewhere near the entrance, where the receptionist gave me constant steely looks. I tried looking elsewhere, combing it here and there, but she put too much spray and wax.

Immediately after leaving that salon, I went into the toilet to fix the mess, which to my relief, was fixable. It looks funky now. :)

Addendum: My stomach hurts. Bad. Bitch.