“Shaniti” by Hitomi Shimatani tries to make me develop a bigger passion for dance music… “Ano hoshi no hikari chikyuu ni todoku toki, sono hoshi ha mou uchuu ni nai to iu. Umareteku negai kieteyuku omoi. Subete no kokoro ni furu shutingu suta…” [Japanese] “By the time the light of a star reaches the Earth, they say that star is no longer there in space. The birth of a wish, the loss of a feeling, are shooting stars that fall in all hearts.”

Friday was a nice relaxing day. Having picked up the last of my Christmas shopping in the morning (for Kev) I had the rest of the day to enjoy. Had to meet Chris and Al later. It had been a long time since I’d seen Al. Maybe 3 years or so. Before I met up with them I decided to get my hair cut at the salon in Chinatown. Note: “salon,” I don’t go to a “barber” anymore. Up until earlier this year I had always gone to a barber and a good 90% of the time they had always been Italian (no coincidence). In retrospect I should have inspected their hairdressing certificates and ascertained whether they were geniunely barbers, or even from Seville, as the opera would have me believe. I guess I had been going to a barber all this time because I used to keep my hair short when I was younger and they were good for that. In recent years I prefer to keep my hair longish, but these western barbers were just not “cutting it for me any more.” I’d ask for a trim to remove an inch or two and I’d get their standard public school boy trim (an inch remaining). It boiled down to one thing: western barbers do not know how to cut Asian hair. I like to keep my hair longish, so prefer minimal usage of electric clippers or anything else that shears whilst buzzing, but it seems that barbers live and die by their clippers. Go into any barbers and I can gurantee no matter what you ask for, they’ll bring out the clippers to drop your hair and have the next customer in the seat before you can virginally protest “Is that it?!?” Figaro indeed.

Although the practise and styles of barbers have not changed at all, the fluctations in price due to the alleged inflation in the economy of hairdressing have changed a lot. You would not sit, on average, much longer than 8 minutes in a standard barber’s chair if you wanted a simple short haircut. When I visited these barbers, it was almost like 8 minutes was the cutoff point and I was paying them for their time and not for what I want. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told them to leave my hair long at the front, only for it to come out at a length similar to the hair protruding from the top of my head. I might get lynched for this or even get a visit from a mobster, but I’d like to say “Barbers suck.” That is, they suck at delivering what I’m after.

So, one day earlier this year I twirled my fingers through my hair and vowed never to visit the barbers any more. I stumbled across a good hair salon in Chinatown where for an extra 3rd of the price that I was previously paying, I would get a haircut the way I wanted it plus a wash, massage and shampoo. Plus, since it’s a fixed rate they would take as long as they needed to get it right. Yesterday, I sat in that chair for a time somewhere between 45 minutes to an hour which was the longest I had ever been in a haircutting establishment in one sitting! The fixed pricing also means that I can tip my hairdresser and rest assured that they deserved it (I tip depending on how good the service is — a standard 12% rule like with restaurants does not apply). It’s a shame not all the hairdressers there speak English. I have to explain to one of the English speakers what I’d like and they would relay it to my hairdresser, who would begin cutting my hair. Simple hand signals suffice as directions for the rest of my haircut and despite the language barrier, it always turns out fine in the end. I think perhaps the best part is that they use the clippers at a minimum there, preferring to use just scissors and a razor brush (I don’t know the actual name for it, but that is literally what it is). In fact, I doubt a standard barber would even know what that razor brush is, because I’ve never seen them use it (they use a shaving blade, which is not the same thing), but this hairdressing utensil makes all the difference. When used together with a staggered jagged pair of scissors, they can take the thickness and volume out of my hair without compromising its length.

Kev’s got his finger on the pulse when it comes to fashion and he asked me about what hairstyle I asked for, what they used, etc. so I am guessing it’s seen as trendy by him now (but it had always been trendy, I thought ;)). He now had an opportunity to get me back for all those times I used to sing to him when he was styling his hair before going out, but he was never the teasing type. My favourite song for these occasions is Liberty X’s “Just A Little:” “Sexy… Everything about you so sexy… You don’t even know what you got…” He has an uncontrollable gag-response smile that I never tire of seeing when I sing this to him. Until recently he used to have the short barber’s special haircut and used to get it cut as soon as it got long and couldn’t understand why I liked my hair longish. He used to look down upon long hair, but now he’s keeping his long. I always told him “You’ve got Asian hair. Your hair is thick, so if you keep it short it will always spike up, which makes you look like a clone of every other Asian guy out there” but it took this long to realise that you can’t do much with short hair, in the sense of styling. It still makes me laugh to remember when we were younger and he used to grow his hair longer at the back and I told him that he would look cool if he tied it at the back with an elastic band. I used to enjoy telling him “Hey, nice pony…” I used to try to tie several ponytails at the back of his head, but he never kept them in because that looked ridiculous. I always offer to cut his hair for him when I cut my uncle’s and cousins’ hair, but he never agrees to it. I doubt he’s even tempted because now he won’t even let me touch his hair. He’s really particular and really image conscious now. Ah, I miss those days when I could style his hair. Kids are cute at that age.

Met up with Chris and Al. I saw Chris the other week, but it’s been nearly 3 years since I’ve seen Al. I remembered him as the typical schoolboy who always had a thousand questions that he’d ask me during shifts at my old workplace. It was nice to see him a few years on, significantly more grown up. He was more reserved and less prone to spontaneous crazy-talk and had a cool exterior like nothing in the world bothered him. I met them at Virgin Megastore, which was where I found the most amusing (and seemingly low budget) DVD title this year: The Hotpants Workout.

The shop’s security-tag detectors sounded each time we’d exit a store and it was funny having the security guard rummaging through Al’s bag, trying to find the article bringing all the attention. It didn’t help that he had Playstation 2 games and DVDs in his bag when the Virgin Megastore and HMV detectors went off. I also wondered what kind of Mickey Mouse training the security guards had received.

Security Guard: {Looks through Al’s bag and pulls out a carrier bag, containing brand new sealed games/DVD cases} So where did you get these from?
Al: Skill (a games shop).
SG: OK… {Carries on looking through the bag}

What?!?! He didn’t even wave the sealed items in front of the detector to make sure they weren’t still “hot.” Didn’t ask to see a receipt. Nothing. After Al showed him all the compartments in his bag, the security guard let us leave the store, to the tune of alarm detectors again. Al had a look through his bag, checked every DVD, game and CD he was carrying, but nothing. Then decided to check in his book and there it was… a magnetic strip stuck to the inside cover at the back of a book! I found it strange that he was even carrying a book let alone reading it. Moreso surprised that it was a Noam Chomsky book.

Me: That’s bizarre. I remember you used to make fun of me when I used to read in the staff room.
Al: Yeah, I know. I read a lot now.
Me: Well, didn’t I tell you that you’d turn into a bookworm some day? See? Books are good for you.

Al spends some time with his family in London over holidays. At all other times he’s usually in the US, with his training in the WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment — previously the WWF). I had a barrage of questions regarding his stage name and asinine questions people had asked him when they meet him on the street. I agreed with him when he said the silliest question he had ever been asked was “Is your real name ‘Blade?’” He says he’ll send over one of his newly designed T-shirts as well.

Me: That would be great. I don’t know if I’d wear it. I would probably just hang it up and treasure it.
Al: It’s a proper shirt, like one you could wear out to a place like this (Note: we were in Hamleys)
Chris: Well I would wear your shirt. Can you get me one that says “I know this guy” on it?
Al: No.
Me: Actually, I’ll wear your shirt, but should I lie when people ask me who the mug on my shirt is?

We stood to attention at his stories of boring press conferences, trashing hotel rooms and weird laws that should be passed.

Al: Don’t you think that there should be a law passed for throwing midgets?
Me: What, like to their death?
Al: No, just throwing them like whenever you see them.
Me: Errrr, sure.

He’s met quite a few celebs and pretty much everyone in the WWE. He mentioned drugs in sports entertainment, but eluded the mention of any names, so naturally I spent the whole day trying to find out who in the WWE does crack/cocaine. But subtly, natch.

Al: Some of the guys are crazy. A lot of them drink heavily.
Me: So who does crack?

Me: There is so much drug use in sport and entertainment.
Al: Me, I just take steroids, joke.
Me: OK, so you’ve never taken crack either?
Al: No.
Me: So who does crack?
Al: I’m not going to say, but it’s obvious when you see them. I have seen someone snort coke off a woman’s breasts though.
Me: Ah, like that scene in Robocop. Was it as it good for her as it was for him?
Al: {Laughs}
Me: So who does crack?

(Inside Misato, just about to order our food)
Al: So what’s good here?
Chris: Just pick what you want and ask him. {Points to me} He’ll be able to tell you if it’s good or not.
Me: Everything’s good here.
Al: So, what about this? {Points to Salmon Teriyaki}
Me: Yeah, it’s good. So who does crack?

It was excellent seeing him again and watching the way he handled tag-team teases from both Chris and I. After dinner, we were considering a visit to the cinema. After passing on One Hour Photo to see what else was on, we had to choose between some others we were not that keen on (including The Sound of Music). Feeling pretty tired, we decided to call it a night and arrange something again in the new year before Al jets back to the US.

Chris: I’m really really tired.
Me: Yeah, I’m knackered. It’s as though the waitress drugged our meat.
C: They had the best selection of waitresses tonight. Perhaps they did that because they were planning to kidnap you.

Yes, perhaps. Not.

Tonight (Saturday) was the work Christmas dinner/party. I think the banquet hall opened at 7pm and the dinner started around 8pm. Q calls me at around 5pm and tells me he’s been up all night and is now going to catch an hour of power-sleep before coming to pick me up to go to the party. I tell him to take as long as he needs, because of the need for his senses to be co-ordinated when driving, plus a side note on the importance of being fashionably late. He went to take his nap and he calls me at 7pm, telling me he’s going to come and pick me up. Near 8pm I decide to call him and ask him if he’s made a wrong turn down a really long one way street but he says he’s had to put oil in his car and help his friend who needed to be towed. Next time I hear from him is after 9pm when he says that he’s on my street now. We arrived at the venue around 9:45, which worked out pretty well, because I really don’t like getting to parties too early.

Dinner was alright and due to having pals on the Entertainment Commitee at work, I had enough drinks vouchers to ensure I wouldn’t have to dig into my own pocket, which worked out great towards my “Saving for a Rainy Day” fund. It’s always strange seeing people from your workplace in a party environment. Everyone was having a good time but I was feeling a bit too tired to really get into the swing of things and make an appearance on the dancefloor. I got comments (especially on my new hairdo) which would make my mum proud, but compliments are not things I accept too well. Whenever I receive compliments about my looks I always feel a little uneasy and at best am able to muster a “Thanks” or a “Thank you” in response. Most of the time I am lost for words and end up just smiling deferentially and giving a nod in acknowledgement of their comment. Most of the time I just don’t believe it when someone says something like that to me. There is a side of me that says I should just hear them out and another side that says I should be cynical and wonder why they are saying nice things. I am particularly sceptical when the comments come from someone who compliments often. My mum told me about the evil of empty compliments and “lip service” and this has made me careful when placing my finger over the compliments trigger. I try to never compliment unless I mean it. Words can be powerful, but empty compliments make words lose their meaning.

Asides from the compliments, it felt strange being in the room with everyone. Q whispers to me that he’s feeling a bit too tall, which make my eyes automatically scan the room. He must have felt really really tall, because even I was feeling tall. I would not consider myself tall at all, but nearly everyone in the room was either roughly my height or shorter by a significant amount! It felt strange because I’m so used to being around people (i.e. my good friends) who are all just about taller than me. Perhaps working in an office makes you shorter, makes your spine curve. With the lack of ergonomic furniture in my workplace, I wouldn’t be too surprised if dodgy posture was a huge contributing factor to spinal morphology.

One of the joys of arriving late at a party is counting the number of people who are already wasted. For this, I was not disappointed as I counted several people staggering on their way to the bar, swaying from side to side to keep in synch with what must have been a swaying room. By 12:30, I had wished everyone I knew a Merry Christmas so I decided not to stay around for the party’s post mortem. It was dead, so I left it at that.