Posts Tagged Culture
Gong Hei Fat Choy by DR
Embarrassingly, I am Chinese. Don’t take me wrong. I am not embarrassed that I am Chinese. I am embarrassed that I am hardly Chinese. I have such a vested interest in other cultures but yet I forsake my own heritage and traditions. In fact, there are only two things Chinese about me. The first is bak kwa and the second is bak kut teh.
It has been a strange journey for me. I used to score full marks for Chinese spelling tests in primary school, which was followed by receiving a Speech Day award for topping the level in Chinese in my secondary school. Of course, I was offered the cheesy NIE scholarship for Chinese Language right after secondary school which meant that I would be the ‘uncool’ Chinese teacher in primary schools around Singapore.
Next like most people, I chose the slowest route to university- polytechnic. And I also became the Chief Editor of the campus newspaper for two issues (unlucky or lucky as the only male in Chinese Newswriting class.) During BMT, I was the unofficial undisputed Chinese Chess player in my platoon. But if you were to ask me any question about the Chinese heritage, I would be pretty dumbfounded.
I spent my first few days of Lunar New Year eating nasi ayam penyet and bakso campur in Batam. I am fairly surprised at 
how my grapple of the language has weakened. A good solid foundation doesn’t count for anything if you do not put in the effort to maintain it. I still think Cantonese is one of the two sexiest languages a woman can speak, the other being silence. Speaking of sexy, when you get some attention in the ghetto, it doesn’t quite equate to sexual attraction.
If someone smiles at you in the ghetto, it is probably one of the following:
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He is drunk.
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You are drunk.
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She has a dick.
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His/Her dick is exposed.
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You look like you do dick.
I also realised sex education was introduced in schools as early as primary one to the seven year olds with raging hormones. It was subtle but the raging rocker saw through it with his sharp observant seven year old eyes, in the disguised form of composition writing. The teacher taught us that “composition writing” should be broken down into three basic segments – Introduction (Foreplay), Body (Need I say more), and Conclusion (Grand finale). From the way I see it, there is really no need for the educational board and society to worry about the lack of proper sexual education for our youngsters.
I was really bad at composition writing then but I still managed to remember that I should be concluding with a paragraph of four to five lines of my introduction rephrased in another way. So, I’m pretty much ashamed that I’m hardly Chinese. I also like bak kwa and bak kut teh.
3 comments January 30, 2009
Hair Cut by DR
I used to be one of those kids who needed one full hour of mindless coaxing, strong firm hands, Vanilla ice cream, and a McDonalds’ Happy Meal before I would sit on a hair salon chair. I never could bear sitting for a hair cut. Then again, many young boys faced the same problem. When I grew up as a kid, I moved on to the friendly neighbourhood Chinese hair salon where the aunties in venomous permed hair loved listening to Jacky Cheung. I soon realised sharing the same hairdresser as my mother was no longer cool.
So, I moved on to good old trusty Indian barber shops. Those had only one wall mirror and it extended from one end of the shop to the other. I love those antique barber chairs, but only in the sense of photographic visuals. The Indian barbers pretty much made the shaving knife their own art and craft, long before Sweeney Todd even had hair to shave. My only problem with them was that I did not quite like what they did with my hair, which was quite important. They seemed to follow one standard haircut for teenage boys and they swore by that compulsory slope of every corner of your hair, which ended up with everyone leaving the shop looking the same.
Next, I tried the fifty-dollar shopping mall hair cuts. There was unnecessary pressure with getting the latest or most edgy hairstyle and it was often overcrowded with people, mainly hairstylists. From getting a simple hair cut, it became a mind game of which I would try to guess the sexuality preference of the stylist. Needless to say, it was uncomfortable and I didn’t like it.
I decided to place my fading faith in the Malay barbers, the one place I thought could never go wrong with hair cuts. At least for the next five years or so, I continued to think that way. The Malay barbers were great conversationalists. They played classic Indonesian rock at their shops, decorated the walls with motorcycle and football posters, and posted fishing photographs. I could listen to their stories and philosophies for hours. Like the Indian barbers, they were not quite creative with their styles but creativity had never been my priority. I wanted consistency, which was missing after a while. Service levels dropped and they started to rush with the hair cuts to serve more customers.
I knew I had to leave. It was a hard decision to make, but my hair couldn’t wait. I gave my regular Malay barber one last chance. A final haircut, before I bid him a silent goodbye in my heart. I found another place. It was a Thai hair salon in one corner of Golden Mile. I could not recall what made me walk in to begin with, and I didn’t think any of the hairstylists expected me as well. I gestured with two fingers that I wanted a hair cut, but in my mind I was afraid they thought I wanted to challenge them to a round of my favourite game.
They sat me down and only one of them was conversant in English but she wasn’t the one cutting my hair. As soon as it started, my heart began to beat a little faster than usual. It was nerve wrecking. She reminded me of my mother when she was younger. Only my mother had this calming effect on me when I had to cut hair as a kid. Her smile felt familiar even though it was the first time I saw it. She was gentle throughout and really took her time. She even wiped off my perspiration from my forehead. (I do get cold sweat from hair cuts.) Soon it was done and over. Before I knew it, I have been there four times and she’s now my regular hairstylist even though we have a language barrier.
The Thai salon does not possess the shaving knife and slope skills of the Indian barbers nor do they boast of the trendiest range of hairstyles of the mall salons. Unlike the Malay matrocker barbers who are great conversationalists, I cannot have any verbal communication with the Thai hairstylists. I must admit, it feels like therapy when they are speaking Thai and I do not understand the surroundings of me. It has one thing special, which the other salons and barbers lack. It makes me feel at home, and I just found out that it is all that I want in a hair cut.
Add comment January 19, 2009
