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my memoir - scene 3: the haircut

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It had to be a summer day, I was not wearing any coat or long sleeve; at that time, we lived in a apartment building (not the one where I had the tumbling) where the mezzanine level was a salon – barber shop. On this particular day, my mom told me to go and get my hair wash and blow dry. Now I actually don't remember she said, " wash, cut and blow day or just wash and blow dry" . Nonetheless, the order was to get my hair done nicely in the downstairs barber shop.How difficult it would be?Umm, let me see, I was less than 12 years old (ten may be), never stepped into salon myself before, not aware I could say no to such my mom's order. I think she gave me $15 bills(could be less)which should be more than enough to get a little kid's hair wash and dry at least. That day I recalled my hair probably had been permed before, it was frizzy, not long though, up to the neck, but stood out. I said my hair sort of stood outward manner, not upward manner; the entire head looked sort of round: looked like the gorilla fur. My mom must have noticed.
So I went downstairs to the mezzanine level's barber shop. I looked inside: it was full of people. I stepped back out of their glass door with aluminum frame. I stood myself on the right side of their door with my back against the wall. That was just the right place for a little child to stand guard for a good half hour pondering (I don't remember what now!) about things. No one discovered my presence there.
Then I proceeded back upstairs to our apartment and addressed my mom, " I am back" something like that. She looked at me (I forgot what was she doing: in bed napping or what, but she was not busying anything) and didn't say a word! Everything went on as if normal. Ha, was my mom good mother or not! Now I think she must have realized that I'd gone throughsome kind of traumaemotionallyand she wouldspare me any more.
Yet again, like so many other things, this "no big deal" incident got tucked into my memory bank all these years without I ever mentioning to her "what I had gone through that haircut day" until the day of her passing.
p.s. I am going to change all these my true stories title to "The Confessional" because there were too many of such things happened during the "my mom and I" years back in Hong Kong and I would send them to the priest to read for my Easter lenten reconciliation hour with God!

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