I haven’t really given much thought to styling my hair for most of my life. When I was a child my mother gave me the ‘fringe cut’ with straight hair at the back. It remained my haircut for years.
The first time I really took charge of styling my hair was in my early adolescence: I grew out the fringe and started to center part my hair. The second time was after graduating school when I got myself the ‘layered cut’. It was the rage. The third time was at the end of Junior College when I started to dislike layers and got myself the ‘Victoria Beckham’ bob.
I’m sitting on a lounge chair overlooking a vast swimming pool. The sun is out but the giant umbrella above me is keeping it at bay. Basking under the cool shade, I slide further down into my chair. My eyes are shut, but somewhere in the distance I can hear a child-like laughter.
I learned early on that I have a bad affliction of not making concrete weekend plans. Usually I’m just lazy, but when I do, it’s mostly a one-on-one with a single individual friend who I can speak to at length about life.
A couple of weekends back, I made exactly such a plan. I reached out to an old friend after nearly 2 years, and to celebrate our union we decided to meet for brunch at quaint little café on a hill on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The location was a mid point between both our houses – symbolic of our mutual excitement to see each another.
It was Jan 2018 when I found myself in the winter section of H&M. It was filled with knitwear and discounts, but for me the joy was in walking between the racks of knitted sweaters and cardigans. I enjoyed caressing my fingers against each and every one of them; I enjoyed feeling their intricate woven looms; I loved how soft the wool felt against my palms.
I had nothing particular in mind that I wanted to buy, but it’s funny how when you go without expecting anything that sometimes you find some of the best things ever. For me it came in the form of a white woolen ribbed sweater.
It was first wonderful and then disastrous. (Say that with a CAPITAL ‘D’.)
I’ve never really been distinctively shy of my dark circles, but come September end – when my insomnia was at its peak – I found it hard to dismiss the idea that I had started to – as my mother put it – ‘mildly resemble a raccoon’.
I had the face bone structure for it (not kidding), and the fact that a large part of my wardrobe is dominated by black, only happened to reinforce my mother’s above-mentioned hypothesis of my rapidly developing appearance.