Look at who has found his way into my mailbox again:
It’s Jesus, reborn with a conservative haircut and a tidy beard!
I went in a different direction with my appearance. I did not grow a beard nor get a hair cut, however…
This is what the woman was laughing at the other day. I mean, it’s hard not to say anything about it. “Act normal. Pretend Laura’s hair isn’t fluorescent yellow.” I’d seen photos of others with this shade of yellow, but I was unprepared for how bright it would come out. I like it.
I’ve been a public spectacle for a long time. To use sign language in public, especially in a suburb like Langley, was an invitation to have an audience. I remember a time when I was dining out with Mom and noticed the family at the table next to ours staring at us. I complained to Mom, who then put me in my place by telling me that I needed to accept that I’d sometimes get gawkers if I dared to communicate in public.
Although I was a shy kid, I indeed got used to the stares. At the age of twelve, I was bold enough to graduate from being stared at part-time to full-time: I dyed my hair blue. I loved my blue ‘do, but it faded so horribly that I didn’t dare to try unnatural colours again until after high school.
Post-high school, I ended up with a few hairstyles deserving of laughs. When I was nineteen, I shaved the sides of my head, bleached the fuzz, and dyed it hot pink. The long sections down the middle were black. To style it, I had to mix some Knox gelatin, run it through my hair, lie on my side in the bathroom while my roommate fanned it out on the floor, and then blow-dried it. The result was a rock-solid 8″ mohawk that purportedly had people yell things at me from moving cars.
This hairstyle was so involved that after a few weeks, I shortened it so that I could style it myself with gel. Therefore, I have a few photos of mohawk jr., and not the abomination that required me to bend my neck to the side to get in and out of Gator’s car. It was fun while it lasted.
This post has a bunch of photos of my past hairstyles. Experts agree that this post is a worthwhile read.
Now, I’m also moderately tattooed, but tattoos have become so commonplace that it isn’t a big deal anymore. In the mid-2000s, though, the few large pieces I had prompted people to stop me on the street to have a closer look. Back then, most people who had tattoos had something small and discreet. It wasn’t until the Suicide Girls peaked that large, visible pieces gained popularity. I was one of the few who took the plunge, not because I was an SG wannabe, but because it was also around the time I was old enough to get tattooed. Having those visible tattoos on my calves in Victoria in the mid-2000s was enough to have my meal interrupted at a Subway restaurant by a guy who then removed his t-shirt so that I could admire his crappy backpiece of an eagle.
A STRANGER TOOK HIS SHIRT OFF IN A RESTAURANT FOR ME.
(Fellow Victorians: It was the Downtown Subway on Douglas that has its doors installed backwards. I think about that incident every time I pass the restaurant, which is almost every day.)
All that’s to say, looking different has led to many interesting interactions. If anyone strips down for me in a restaurant as result of my radioactive locks, you bet I’ll document every detail on here.
Since Easter is coming up, I’m going to give Jesus some glory. Before I continue, I must confess that I’ve lied about finding him in my mailbox. I don’t have a mailbox. Instead, I collect my mail off the dryer in the laundry room. The thing is, much like the card I received from a Jehovah’s Witness a few months ago, the envelope didn’t specify a recipient. One of my landlords clearly opened the envelope, read it, taped it back, and passed it on to me.
Even when something is in a language I do not understand, I can usually guess the language, but I needed Google’s help this time. “Imbitado Ka!” is Filipino for “You are invited!” It couldn’t have been the landlord who’s most likely to be Filipino who thought to forward the card to me–I don’t know him well, but it’s not his style–it had to be the landlady’s doing. I like her, though: she’s got pep!