A Bowl Full of ICE CREAM by TK Cheng
I have the honour of knowing a good friend who has inspired me through our coffee sessions and late night suppers. What made me very proud of him is his new status as an author of a children’s book. A Bowl Full of ICE CREAM was his gift to me, with “stories to inspire change and motivate excellence.”
Sure, it was written for children, employing the art of story-telling and favourite things such as ice-cream flavours to convey morals and values of life. I often found myself going back to the book to flip through a story, to relax and reflect, to enjoy a storytelling session, to discover the inner child within me again.
It can be almost as simple as “The Shortest Tree”, a story that tells of determination and managing failures, or “A Magical Forest” to help you learn about relaxation. Compare three seedlings who have each withered, got uprooted by strong winds, with only the shortest and tiniest of them all eventually growing into a large tree. You know, that sort of heart-warming happy stories. In the increasingly cynical environment we find ourselves battling through, A Bowl Full of Ice Cream reminds us how simple life was as a child, and how the values we learned carved the persons we are today.
There is something about lying in bed tucked under the comforter, reading a simple story book that does not threaten to question your progress in life nor sets you thinking, that becomes strangely peaceful. For once, you stop thinking about work, you slow down in your pace of thinking just for that rare five minutes, and you retire to bed calm and ready for the next day. This does not happen all the time, but I am just saying it helps.
Or pick up a colouring book and revive your crayon days.
Filed under: Beauty & Health, Lifestyle, Woven Tales | Tags: asymmetrical, hair, hairstyle, relationship, stylist
I love my new hair.
Each time I look in the mirror, each time my fingers grazed the styling clay, I thought of his teasing fingers shaping my bangs, and the image freezes there.
If the word “affair” is loosely termed, my affair with Mr Scissors-Hands begun last year. Like every relationship, I bolted away crying from my previous hairstylist, convinced that the love of my life has ruined the future ahead for me. Till I met Mr Scissors-Hands when I wandered through the corridors of dodgy Katong Shopping Centre – I entered haltingly, he beckoned gently. I stiffened a sigh, and plonked myself to an experience I could only hope for the best.
The first encounter. Like a first date, we did not know what to make of each other. I wondered how good his fingers were, while he wondered what baggage and scars I carried with me. Like a dance of lovers, we begun slowly, hesitant, a brief touch, his hand guiding the way. I tip-toed along those pages of flowing curls, I made my decision, and closed my eyes for his magic…
Why did I choose to leave the man who had toyed with my hair for the past six years? I confided in him, I wanted him to make me the prettiest girl in school, I begged for him to try new things on me. He was the dominant one in the relationship, he held the reins. He gave me what he liked, and I loved it because he liked it too. Eager to please, I modelled his dreams and he painted his desires on me. I cried my sorrows and life’s worries while he smoothed my hair, and somehow his words – though not many – managed to make me feel better. It might not have been his words but the magical tough he had on my hair, because I remember leaving his salon happy and feeling more beautiful than an hour earlier. Like a relationship facing the inevitable stagnant phase, where nothing exciting happens anymore, he was harsh with his words. “No matter what you want me to do with your hair, face it – you’ll still look the same blah girl.”
I did not need a man who saw no hope in making magic with me anymore.
Mr Scissors-Hands was a renewed hope, a refreshed vigour and a whiff of adventure. I felt assured and safe with him as we explored textures and colours, sharing an anticipation as the hair-dryer reveals the final product bit by bit. I was always stunned to awe by his skill with the scissors while he took pride in my adventurous nature. Curls, bob, the asymmetrical cut…it was like having snapshots of our memories, with stories woven behind them. The curls allowed us to discover our mutual friends, and each other’s likes and dislikes. The bob revealed a more intimate side of him – he had a daughter, but he is alone now. I hummed along a similar tune – single child, single mum – and we silently understood each other, the pain, the loneliness…and our courage to march through life. The asymmetrical was a fun excursion, him teasing, I was laughing. I am hooked to him, like another lover in my life.
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In reality, chosing a hairstylist is almost like chosing a boyfriend. Women flock to men who seem to exist for the sole purpose of making them beautiful, and it is in our nature to find the perfect match who understands our hair, our roots, and our nature. I belong to the statistics – they do not call the hair a crowning glory without a reason. Hair changes our complex, our impression on others, and at times releases our alter-ego within us.
Three hours with a hairstylist is almost like going out on a date. Such close proximity, do we simply sit in silence? Conversations, laughter, the need to find similar interests to generate topics to chat…hairstylists have moved from a mere hair-transforming agent into a professional friend. Women seek that professional friend for a quick confidential outburst, for a confidence booster, and at times, a convenient coffee date when she is around the area.
In cases where some will take this friendship level to the next one that of lovers, a relationship that blossomed out from such stylist-customer origins are few and scattered wide. My told-story of “My Affair with Mr Scissors-Hands” will stay a purely fictional one, because the professional friendship is worth the next few good years (or more, I hope) of lovely hair.
Filed under: Woven Tales
They said there was a road you turn off past Holland Village, through the white metal sheets of a construction in progress – and you transcend into the mystical world of The Beautiful Land.
They said that The Beautiful Land is a strange place, where you see local bakeries with the usual bread aunties, speaking with that Singaporean tongue – juxtaposed with an army of charming men, and fairy-like ladies. Men of the smoothest complexion, of lean gaits, tall and dashingly well-dressed. Men of your dreams – the metrosexual, the pretty boy, the scruffy one, the boyish imp, and they mingle with the ladies of your desires. Those ladies, the men swear by their luscious locks, floating footsteps like they are dancing on water, soft lips and a voice of the wind.
Not many discovered that hidden passage way, and returned to their lives for more than a day. Strange vanishing incidences spoke of a day’s return, and never to be seen again. Those who have ventured through The Beautiful Land and came back alive, stared away with a dreamy look in their eyes…yet behind that misty haze you see a glimmer of impending fear and a hidden tale they refuse to speak of.
We crashed past those metal sheets – Jay, Chlo and I. They might very well call it A Moment of Flawed Temptation.
Jay found a fairy, so he called her. Green eyes she had, with fire in her hair, because it was so so red. She took his hand, led him away..laughing, dancing. I could not stop looking, there were just too many of them. We munched on sesame buns we purchased from the local bakery – just two dollars for six – like those you see on the ground floors of our HDB apartments. The aunty conversed with nobody in particular:
Jia lat lah, these people. So young, so tempted. Then they always disappear. Ah Girl! The bread okay already! They always leave something in those humans’ pockets, so that they are never fully returned to their land. No..they aren’t humans, too beautiful already. Those who play, must know the rules. If not, they disappear…then how to play? Ah, what you want? Kaya waffle ah? There you go, thank you xiao mei. Then you want to find them, almost impossible lah. Then how? Stuck loh. That’s it, just disappear..nobody knows.
Jay returned, triumphant. We went home…and I never saw him again.
Curiousity always kills the cat, they say. But I am a cat with nine lives, what’s one to me?
Through the white sheen I went again. This time I found my temptation, encased in a lean torso, clothed with a linen shirt…slacks..side swept hair that hid half his chestnut eyes…he spoke:
Come here. I took his hand and tried to stay alert, mentally marking my tracks so that I could trace him again, if I had to. He led me through the bustling stalls, through a series of twists and turns (3 lefts, 1 right and another left) and he pulled me through a wall.
And I fell, but he held me – through meadows of gold we flew, to a place he called home. Three other pixie-like creatures stared at me, their eyes the colour of the deep blue sea, their cheeks…almost procelain-coated. I struggled to remember every moment. It was beautiful.
If we are not returned as a whole when the sun sets the next day, our owner from the previous night turns into dust. If the human does not return to his land when the sun sets, the same fate awaits him. Temptation lasts a night here – never more, never less.
Those three sisters. Their whispers blended into the wind.
He returned me home, not before a kiss of farewell. And I realised, with shock…the exchange of such fluids, meant that a part of him remains in me.
Look for me, you know where to find me. Renew this exchange, and you will not disappear. Let temptation be your addiction.
The first thing I noticed was her hunch protruding from the back of her shoulders. Her wrinkled hands which have seen through the height of her youth reached forward to clear those plates left by the previous diners. Hands trembling, spilling sauces along the way, she cleared the messy leftovers they so hastily left behind. I watched each movement, slow but steady, her intention clear and decisive, following the motions she repeats table after table, day after day. I thanked her, again and again…and her wrinkled lips curled into an appreciative smile, her eyes lit up. My heart warmed towards this old woman who made Sunday dinner a better meal for me.
Her smile lingered as she settled into her routine at a table not far off, those hands that cleaned after us as we stream into the food court, and leave our plates uncleared. We no longer clean up after ourselves, we even forget to stack the plates to make things a little easier for the silent hardworking cleaners. Neither do some of us nod an appreciate thank-you in their direction.
It was only proper that the younger ones cleared the table while the older folks sit back and rest after a hard day’s worth of cooking. Tables have turned – why do the old ones clean up after us? Why do those people who have moulded our society as it is today have to stand hours at their jobs? Why is it that the seventy-somethings are the ones hobbling around while the seventeen-somethings laze around at cafes? Why is it that those hands that made our lives so comfortable today are not entitled to a pampering hand massage, but have to pick at our leftovers and throw them into a bin on our behalf?
We whiz by so quickly, so caught up in the race towards success, so intent on reaching the next million mark. We forget the hands that carried us from the cradle, we forget the smile on her face.
