On My Hair. And Why I Never Cut It Too Short.

When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me she hated my hair. It was long and heavy and thick, and just altogether difficult to maintain. It always got in the way of everything. I guess it was straight. I mean, it was supposed to be straight but even on its best day, it looked like I had just rolled out of bed. I had enough baby hair for three babies, and it was always tangled in knots. I never cared too much for it because it didn't matter how hard I tried to tame it, it had a mind of its own.

When I turned 8, my mom said she was tired of me and my sister's hair. She took us to my aunt, who was a hairdresser, and had her chop off--what seemed to me--two or three feet of my hair. It was traumatizing. I hated it. I remember my cousins not recognizing me and laughing at my new ridiculous hairdo. Oh, and not only was it short but my aunt gave me bangs. BANGS. Straight across my forehead. I looked like one of those HTT fobs.

It ruined what little good self-image I had of myself. Forever. Almost.

8 is that pre-awkward stage in your life where all your baby fat is gone and you're in between ugly and lanky. Or at least I was. My sister was 6, so she still had some of her baby fat. But then again, I guess she was always cute to begin but I digress.

I was livid. On top of that, I looked uglier than usual. I was an ugly, mad child. The worst combination ever. I remember crying and telling my mom that I would never let her decide what to do with my life hair. Her response? She laughed. And she couldn't stop laughing. She must have felt bad but it was absolutely comical how much of a drama queen I was being.

It took me another four years to grow it out to the middle of my back. And then another year for me to realize that I would need to cut my hair because it started looking ratty. I also learned what split ends were and they disgusted me.

Since then, I've never had my hair shorter than my armpit. And to me, that was too short and sometimes anxiety-inducing.

The last time I cut my hair, it was right before a break up. Unlike those who have post-breakup haircuts, I chose to have a pre-breakup haircut. I don't know. It was stupid. I was stupid. I thought it would make me stronger and less sad about having to break up with the guy but...I still felt pretty shitty. Sans hair and beau.

* * *
Almost everybody I know has probably only known me with long hair. Those close to me, know that I love my long hair and even though I've considered cutting it short, I never have. Until--dun dun dun--last night.

I went with my boyfriend to get his hair cut by our friend, Tom. Tom works at Whistle in the East Village. (Everybody should go to Tom. He has magic hands.) I hadn't planned on getting my hair cut. I just wanted to know what he thought would look good and when he would be free. But it happened. That night. He was probably feeding on my vulnerability and impulsivness (haha, kidddding Tom! I know you have my best interests at heart.)He suggested a short cut. Short as in...up to my collarbone. And before I knew it, he had my hair parted in two and had snipped off enough for me to donate to Wigs for Kids.

At first I was like--geeez-louise, I look like a man.
Memories from when I was 8 flooded my vision and I fought back the tears welling up in my eyes.
And then Tom blew it out--oh sha-dang, who dat cutie?
Then Tom added texture--ohayyyy shaawwwty wutup.
Finally he curled it--GO ON AND LOOK AT YOUR BAD SELF.

Yup. By the time Tom was done with my hair, I felt like a billion bucks. I kept flipping my hair back and forth because it was so light. I felt so pretty.

* * *
I spent the better half of this morning taking selfsies instead of writing cover letters. Who in the world would have ever thought that it would be so damn difficult to take selfsies? I started sweating after 5 minutes. And then I changed because I realized that the shirt I was wearing had a stain on it. I'm gross. Whatever.

Here. For the first time in almost 20 years, I re-introduce to you, the shortest my hair has ever been.

Before:

Ugh, don't tell me how nasty my hair was. I SEE IT NOW OKAY!?

After:
 

 
I don't know how to use a blow dryer and brush like Tom so I kept it ...kind of straight. I also don't know why I'm posing like this. I look like such a derp.

My hair looks great. I feel amazing. And now I won't shed my hair on my everything. Thanks Tom! I love your magic hands and wish you were my live-in stylist.

On Gay Guys. And Straight Guys. And Guy-Friends.

I recently re-watched Kick-Ass. Mostly because Hit-Girl is pretty much my hero. Whenever she fights, it makes me want to jump on things and do some serious damage.

There's a scene in the movie where Kick-Ass's love interest thinks he's gay. He plays along because he wants to get close to her. That scumbag. Then there's a scene where she's like...Oh, I've always wanted a friend like you. And he gets confused and he's like...what do you mean? And she says something about how he's gay. When he brings it up to his friends, one of them says something about how his love interest has always wanted a gay best friend.

Wait. What? We do? Is this true? Do other girls also want gay best friends? Maybe? I don't know. I've never walked into a gay bar and pointed at a gay guy whose fashion sense is much better than mine and said, "Hey you. You're going to be my gay best friend." It's hard enough making just ONE friend.

No, I don't have anything against gay guys. Ultimately, they're still guys. And it's hard for me to even be friends with guys in general. What do you talk about with guys?

Sports? But I only really enjoy college sports. Okay I lied. I like Jeremy Lin and Adrian Peterson.
Music? Ugh, can't we just listen to music together and not talk?
Computers? I don't know anything about computers. I only know how to use the Intermawebz.
Cars? Ever since I stopped driving, I stopped caring about cars.
Muffin tops? I only like eating muffin tops. I don't know if I could talk about them for too long.

Considering I act like this, it's safe to say that I shouldn't talk to guys. Any guy. Period.

Side note: Once, a guy told me that it was difficult for him to be friends with women. When I asked him why, he said it was because they were boring. Personally, I think the same can be said of men.

* * *
I should say that I do have guy friends. But when I think about it...they're usually there to drag my face home after a night of debauchery. If I ask what they were doing all night while I was getting smashed, they'll answer something like, "Oh, standing by the bar trying to get the bartender's attention." So it's like we SORT OF hung out, but not really.

Hahaha, I kid, I kid. My guy friends are the best. They may not understand why I randomly burst into tears every so often and they might make fun of my neediness but they've seen me through the best and my literal worst times. From them, I've learned how to laugh at myself and not to take things so damn seriously. And because of that, my life has probably been extended another 10-some years. Thanks, dudes.

Candy Crush is Ruining My Life.

I'm writing this post while I wait for my friends to send me tickets so I can move on to the next episode of Candy Crush. UGHHH YOU GUYS. JUST SEND ME THE FREAKEN TICKET. I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE.

* * *
It's only been two weeks since I started playing. It's consumed my life. I think about it constantly. I see jellies, chocolates, licorice, candy bombs, striped candies, rumballs. Everywhere. When I close my eyes, I see them. When I look at my email, I see them. As I'm reading, I see them. When I eat, I think about how I'd rather be eating candy instead of whatever meal I'm having. I've even started to dream about playing the damn game. That's when you know you've got it bad--when your dreams are consumed with a game.

* * *
The grass underneath me was plush and green. The sun warmed my arms and legs as I stretched myself on my back. My phone buzzed. My lives had been fully restored. FINALLY. With one life, I was able to move forward 100 levels. With a second life, I advanced another 50-some levels.

"Come on...Mom needs to see you," my sister said urgently.
"Yeah, yeah, give me a few more minutes. I'll come once I beat this level."
"That's what you said four hours ago."
"Alright! I'll come once I lose this life."
"...But that's what you said two months ago."
"What are you talking about? I've only been playing for a few minutes."
"No, you've been playing for eight years."

I looked up to see that my sister had aged. There were wrinkles in her face and her hair was short and grey. I never thought eight years could make such a difference on an Asian woman's face. I guess she was an exception. I tried to get up but couldn't; grass and plant roots had grown over me, making me part of the landscape. I struggled to no avail. My sister took out a chainsaw and ripped the roots from the ground without making a mark on me. It was scary but really neat at the same time.

My joints felt achy and I walked slowly up the hill.

"Where are we going?" I asked my sister.
"Mom's sick."
"With what?"
"We don't know. She's just sick. You could have cured her but you were playing that stupid game."

I felt sick to my stomach. I'd been rotting my existence away for eight years playing a never-ending game. And my mother was on her death bed. Worst person award goes to...yours truly.

When we got to her, it was too late. She was already in a coffin, ready to be buried. My sister started weeping and throwing random things at me. Her shoes. Her belt. A cage with a turtle in it. A pot with a flower in it. A tray of food. A stuffed owl.

Then it hit me. Well, things were literally hitting me, but it REALLY hit me. My mom was gone and for the last eight years of her life, I had been absent. I never once called to see how she was doing. Did she suffer? What about my dad? How was my baby brother taking it? WHO WOULD TAKE CARE OF OUR FAMILY!?!?

So I cried and cried and begged baby Jesus to bring my mother back so I could love her just for a few more minutes. Instead, the Candy King from Candy Crush appeared. He would grant me three wishes but only if ...something something...something......

* * *
I don't remember the rest because I couldn't breathe and had to wake myself up. Thankfully it was just a dream nightmare. My pillow was wet, there was snot on my face, and my mouth was dry. I hate stress-cry-dreams. They're so exhausting.

I vow to stop playing Candy Crush...after I get to the top of the map. I want to know what's up there.

Am I the only person suffering from this!? What's wrong with me? :( Is this real life??

For the Love of the Game.

Four years of essential conditioning that would leave our young bodies aching for days. Four years of learning how to play the game. Four years of being the underdogs and never, ever, wanting to give up.

* * *
The bumps of the ball against my fingers as I turned it over and over again in my hands preparing for a free throw. The squeaking of shoes against gym floors as players guarded their zones or person. The gentle swooshes of basketballs against nets. The huddles during time outs.

I miss playing ball.

Conditioning. Drills. 3-point shots and free throws. Left hand dribbling and lay-ups. Cherry pickers and suicides. Fast breaks and full court presses. Boxing out and rebounding. 1-3-1. 2-3. Man-on-man. Defense, defense, defense. Eyes on the ball! Look for your teammates! And gallons and gallons of water.

I miss GIWU.

I remember as if it were just yesterday when we would wake up at the crack of dawn just to get to the courts before other teams so we'd have an extra hour or two to practice. Gas prices were cheaper. No bills or student loans to worry about. No 9-5's. And the most important thing in life was youth group.

I remember the defeats that always left me discouraged and hopeless. I remember sprinting down courts in desperation, feebly attempting to stop the other teams from dominating us once again. I would tell myself that I would never touch another basketball in my life but as soon as the next game started, all self doubt was eliminated. It was a second wind of sorts. Isn't that what love is about: thinking you should just give up because you can't win but once you're head to head, you realize that you're in it for the good and bad? And that it's part of the growing process. You'll win some, you'll lose some.

And we definitely lost a lot.

But that didn't seem to matter to me. I just liked running back and forth on the courts with my team. We breathed and lived basketball. We nurtured that love for the game. We were bonded by the love of the game. We'd play anybody and anywhere. We may have never placed in the leagues but we always learned from our mistakes. We learned from one another. We grew as a team united in we went through scrimmages, pick up games, tournaments, and leagues, never placing, but always learning from our mistakes.

I miss loving the game.