Doing It Gracefully

It was one of those quiet Friday nights in my room. You know, the kind of night where you know you're supposed to be out hitting the hottest clubs, chatting up the sexiest girls... but for some reason you're home alone with no plans.

But there were curtains. And there was a locked door ensuring privacy. So I simply did what any other guy would have done in my position.

I took photographs of the top of my head, since it was one of the few parts of my body I'm not that familiar with. It never hurts to learn more about yourself.

And to my utmost shock, I discovered that I have a bald spot.

I know because I uploaded pictures of my scalp to my laptop and zoomed in, then went online to figure out that the circular bit at the top of your scalp is known as the crown or the root of the parietal whorl. 

And then I compared my pictures against other people's, and I discovered that my scalp was relatively very much more exposed. No matter what angle I took my pictures from, I couldn't change the ugly truth that stared back at me from the laptop screen.

Now, if you purchased a product and you discovered it was faulty, you'll call up the shop to complain. Hence, I called up my mother. I didn't care if it was only 8am in Singapore and my mother was most likely not in the mood to entertain panic-stricken first-borns.

Me: Hi mum! Look, there's something I need to talk to you about! It's quite serious!

Mum: Teng! Oh no! What happened!

(A short explanation is necessary. In all the months I've been overseas, no emergency has ever necessitated my calling home to seek counsel from my parents. Not when there was a stabbing outside my building, not even when my hot flatmate upgraded from a scanty towel to a proper all-encompassing bath robe on her daily pilgrimages to the shower.)

Me: It's my head! I've got a bald spot! I can see my scalp!

Mum: ... how do you know this? 

Me: I took pictures! It's very obvious! 

Mum: Cannot be cannot be! It's just the way your parting is la, you just comb your hair differently and it should go away.

Me: Go away? Mum, I don't comb the top of my head!

Mum: But cannot be! Your dad and I aren't bald, and no one in our extended families is bald!

I hung up then. The shock was too much. Either I was developing a case of non-hereditary baldness (which Google says is quite rare), or I was balding hereditarily, and hence, ADOPTED.

A melancholic reflective mood set upon me. I sat at my desk, reading up about male balding, wondering if my long hair was getting too heavy for my scalp to support, and hence, falling out. 

I also went through old albums of my youth (pre-2008, it seems), and reminisced about the 

times when the days were carefree and hair was thick, lustrous and in abundant supply. Memories were suddenly shrouded in sepia-tones. 

My iTunes was playing then, and then I suddenly realized that the last three songs were by pop stars younger than I. Namely, Jordin Sparks (19 years old), Leona Lewis (23 years old), and Miley Cyrus, star of Hannah Montana, who's all of 15 years old at this time of blogging.

The avalanche of evidence pouring in was staggering. A lot of things suddenly made sense. Why I simply could not get up before 10am anymore, why I had suddenly taken a shine to Frank Sinatra and forsaken Mr. Timberlake, why I was always falling asleep in the toilet.

Seriously, it occurred to me that despite my best efforts I had already turned 24 this year. 

Wow.

I guess for me it's that time of year again, where I sit down and contemplate what I've achieved in the past year, and how much more I want to do in the following one. It's funny how I always get so zen and contemplative about life when exams loom around the corner.

Funny, isn't it, how time is like the greedy fat kid in a candy store - when you've got your eye trained on him, he's shuffling slowly between the aisles, but the moment you blink, all the candy samplers are suddenly gone.

Hehe, I even remember that time when

OH MY LORD I'M RAMBLINGGG.