Hello, I blog!
I share all my sporadic and toilet thoughts in here, because I am random like that.
Addicted to denim
In recent months, I’m finding myself increasingly hooked on denim. I love its ruggedness and its versatility, and how it matches with absolutely anything.
Denim also has an inherent characteristic that I can relate to – how it’s tough and able to withstand even the roughest of terrains and yet still emerge strong. Sure, it undergoes loads of wear and tear. But that’s what gives it personality. Just like how battle scars say a lot about a person’s past history, and shape one’s character.
I bought the following denim vest online a couple of days ago.
Photos credit to Wonderstellar.
The parcel reached me today, and I tore it apart with glee.
But when I attempted to stick it in my wardrobe, I took in the view of all my other denim shirts (5 long sleeved and 2 sleeveless) hung side-by-side, along with my humongous stack of denim bottoms … and felt insanely guilty.
Oh well.
Hello, I am not a ‘Sir’
I’ve been really fickle about my hair. Some days, I just wish it’d grow faster. And on other days, I just can’t wait to get it all chopped off.
My last haircut was about a month ago – where I decided to retained my short (extremely layered), slightly tomboyish crop. It’s grown out quite a fair bit now and once again, I’m undecided.
Mum and I was at Parkway Parade this evening. While strolling along, I was eyeing my reflection in the glass door next to me – particularly my hair.
“Hmm, should I cut my hair again?” I wondered aloud.
Mum just stared at me – I knew very well how she felt about me having short hair in general, so I didn’t really need an answer.
We walked on.
And when we walked past the food counter at Yoshinoya (a Japanese rice set fast-food joint), one of the guys behind the counter – in a fit of over-enthusiasm (because the joint was empty at that moment), decided to yell out.
“Hello maam! Hello sir!”
I looked around. There was no one else in the vicinity except for my mum and me.
“Sir?! What the fuck?!” was my outburst, directed at no one in particular.
The fellow behind the counter at least had the grace to look sheepish. Mum on the other hand, couldn’t stop laughing for quite a while.
As for the answer to the question, “should I cut my hair shorter?” Well, it’s quite obvious that I’ve gotten my answer. No.
Two languages, but one understanding
I met an autistic boy today.
He was one of the helpers at the craft store I went to this afternoon. A cozy family business, that craft store was. I was really glad that the family business somehow allowed him to be part of the crew so that he gets to mingle with and meet new people.
The expression on his face when I approached him for help in the store was … hard to describe.
A mixture of joy and confusion perhaps. Joy towards how I approached him and spoke to him like a normal person, but confusion because he had no idea how to help me. His face was initially all aglow, before it was shrouded in bewilderment and he finally, gestured towards another lady to assist me.
Later on, he had taken to following me around the store.
I was looking for ribbons, and he lingered around in the nearby vicinity as I pored through the shelves and shelves of ribbon reels. It was clear that he could communicate, just that he didn’t know how. Occasionally, I’d pick up a roll of ribbon and go “hmm,” “too narrow”, “too wide” or “too expensive”, and I can hear all sorts of murmuring and squeaking noises coming from his general direction.
It was like we were having a conversation, only with both parties speaking in different languages … but still understood each other.
There was one point where I jokingly lamented about how the ribbons here were sold in reels and not per metre and he giggled along with me.
Later on, I reached for a tri-coloured (red, blue and white) ribbon reel and the murmurs and squeaks from the boy became louder. I looked up at him, and he pointed to the ribbon reel and gestured to his neck in a roundabout motion in response.
“Ah, this one is for medals!” says I.
And the boy began nodding wildly, squeaking and murmuring his approval.
The boy shadowed me around the store until I was ready to checkout. At that time, I stood patiently by the counter, waiting for one of the ladies in charge to finish whatever she was doing so that she could ring up my purchases.
The boy didn’t let me wait, though. He gestured/squeaked/murmured loudly for the attention of another storekeeper to come assist me and I was all ready to go in a matter of a couple of minutes.
I could have sworn that he said “bye” when I left the shop.
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