Mistakes

We all make them.

You may want to think otherwise, but that's the law of nature. If you were born human, then my best bet is that you have some point in your life made some kind of mistake - be it a silly one, a disastrous one, or just something you'd rather not talk about.

Fact is, nobody's perfect. It's just a congenital human flaw we have to live with. The only way I see for us to get through this flaw is by acceptance. Not anger, not pity, and not a shake of the head.

Acceptance.

That's ultimately what we need. And i'm not saying i've figured out the solution to global warming or how to feed the malnourished kids in Africa. But hey, it's a start, right?

If we all try to accept people the way they are - flaws and all - then maybe, just maybe... the world would be a better place.

Those pale irretrievables.

It happened so long ago that I've almost forgotten, jaded by the harshness of time and circumstances.

But I'm still young. I'm allowed to dream.

And in my dreams, we are walking hand in hand across a green, green field; along a small, steady stream. My yellow summer dress billows around my ankles with the wind. Your voice is like wisps of cotton candy, syrupy and sweet.

We stop to admire the blooming pale azaleas, when secretly it's you I'm admiring. You look down at me briefly, tuck an errant curl behind my ear, your fingers brushing my jawline carelessly. You smile the sweetest smile I've seen, and I blush because my heart - that funny, fragile thing - is swelling with each beat.

Even in my dreams, I cannot imagine being any happier than this.

But then I wake into the world I live in, and you start to become a painful black and white memory.

For a few frantic minutes, the compass of my beating center clamors in search of you as you fade away with reality. And then I realize you're gone completely, leaving me only the faint traces of those pale irretrievables and a memory of a dream.

I can't help but miss you, but I know better than to cling.

Because these are the things I must try to think least about,

the things that are just clatters of my keyboard and the racing of my heart.

Shortcakes

My mother has a theory.

She claims that people of short stature are menacing behind the wheels. She believes they are the most disrespectful and dangerous of dangerous drivers. Although I try my very best not to be openly judgemental, I actually agree with her on this.

If you think I sound blatantly insulting or offensive, think again.

For one thing, it's not a difficult theory to test out. Gear up and take a slow, leisurely drive along your favorite stretch of road. If you happen to have the misfortune of encountering a driver that's a bit cuckoo, take one quick glance at him and most often than not you'd notice that he's tiny/short/small. (Oh yeah, i forgot to mention, Mom's theory only applies to guy drivers).

Mom's reasoning for this phenomena is simple - it's all psychological!!

Guys who are physically lacking in height usually feel that they have no control or power at the work place, among friends etc etc (or so she says). But ahh, behind the wheels they feel big and great and whatever it is they lack in physicality is compensated by showing off their strut on the runway that is the city streets.

"The shorter they are," she maintains, "the bigger their ego and the worse they are on the road."

In fact, she says, if they were in any position of power, they'd exercise it to the extremes just to show how 'big' they are in these areas where they feel they have much control over (anything other than their physique, apparently).

Mom is so convinced with her hypothesis that she declares rather brazenly that if she were to write a paper on it, she'd be earning a PhD by now.

LOL. My mom can come up with the silliest, funniest and most outrageous theories sometimes (eg: Nepal got its name from the Malay spelling of apples. Epal = (N)epal. N as in an infinite number of apples. Get it??). But this whole 'short-driver-horrible-driving' theory is, I gotta hand it to her, definitely one of her best yet.

And the funny part is that we all totally agree with her.

So you see, the consensus in our family right now - thanks to Mommy dearie - is that height (or rather, the lack of it) plays a huge role in how men drive.

Case closed!

p/s: Mom, I wrote the paper. Now, where's my doctorate? =P

Hairspray

I'm ticklish. I have been all my life. It's a curse.

That is why getting a haircut for me is like a silent war with my insides, and with the sorry person who has to tolerate chopping off my lovely locks. That, up until last year, would be my Mom.

Mom, however, has a couple of tricks she uses every time i start giggling uncontrollably - she whacks me hard on the head (which might explain my rather short attention span).

A couple of times, when she gets really annoyed, she cuts off one side of my hair and then in elaborate fashion drops her scissors and tells me she has had enough of my squirming and giggling and and that i can go ahead and live with my lopsided bob of tangled mess. I'll then, in similar elaborate fashion, plead and cry and beg for her to finish what she had started. Which she will, eventually, with a big show of huff and puff.

So you can imagine what a nightmare having my hair cut is for me.

And Mom too, apparently. Because just last year, after 21 odd-years of being my personal hair-stylist, she declared very suddenly that she will no longer be cutting my hair for me and I will have to start fighting my battles against ticklishness alone.

And thus begins my journey towards self-discovery and personal independence (read: i can now choose whatever hairstyle i fancy).

My first official haircut outside the dictatorial head-whacking 'haven' that is Mom's Salon (a.k.a the kitchen) was, sadly, a huge disaster.

And that's sugarcoating it.

I actually gave the hairdresser a good kick every time she hit a particularly ticklish spot. Not once, not twice, but 3 times! I even kicked her mirror stand in front of me and all her equipments came tumbling down in a heap on the hair-littered floor. Poor lady. (No wonder Mom always had such a hard time giving me a haircut).

Lucky me tho, the lady was very professional about it. She didn't scold me, nor whack me on the head with her scissors during the ordeal. Phew~

But clever clever lady, that hairdresser. Because only after I've paid her in full does she mention with a straight face: "Ini first time akak kena sepak masa potong rambut customer"

GULP. Embarrassing, okay!

Ahhhhh but that, my friends, is ancient history. I've come a long way since that fateful first haircut. Nowadays i try not to kick any unsuspecting victims while they do their job. It takes effort, trust me, not to kick and trash and giggle and squirm when a complete stranger tickles you. I'd have my fists balled up under the covers draped over me and I'd clench my jaws so tightly they hurt. It works tho, which is all that really matters.

Even my Mom was impressed with how far I've come. Yesterday, after i got my most recent haircut to date, Mom said to me: "Hey, you didn't kick the lady this time."

"Nope, i certainly did not! " i say triumphantly, with a slight hint of smugness.

"Good girl," she says.

Oh, such a warm fuzzy feeling I get whenever Mom says that.

Maturity aside, i sometimes forget that I'm 23 and a young adult.

I'm just Mommy's little girl again, getting herself a haircut.

(^___^)~ Sukidesu.