The Girl who Lives behind Picket Fences.

At her best she is shallow; for shallowness is the rightful virtue of women who are darlings. Beautiful women are the burden bearers of all things lovely and ought not to be buoyed down by meaningless depths.

At her worst, she is profound, for intellect never fails her. And she is often at her worst: forever discerning epiphanies while believing none existed; trusting instincts while knowing premonitions were apocryphal; fathoming intensity while assuming sentiments to be delusional; searching for love while fearing vulnerability. She is aware of her contradictions.

She reserves her best for the kinds of you: who she knows she runs the risk of falling for. She reserves her worst only to herself. Indeed she lives behind her picket fences and she has no intention to be understood by you at all.

You'd notice her if she walked past you, though she's not your idea of an ideal beauty. You could spot her wearing a red silk dress in a sweltering summer bazaar, where she would unmindfully look through you and breezily walk past you - leaving you wondering if she'd come alive from the pages of the classic novel you'd been engrossed in. Or you'd see her standing with a bottle of beer in hand, wearing a pair of battered blue jeans that hung limply to her tiny waist, and the hems of which have been worn out by use, at an up-street high-tea party. In fact, you could run into her anywhere - where it appeared as though she didn't belong. And yet if she ever let you meet her eyes, you'd notice her silent pride in her intentional irrelevance.

If you talk to her, you'll ask her why she is single; and she'll ask you if that is a trick question. You'll ask for her number and she will oblige.

You'll think you'd fallen in love with her, but you'd merely have been enamoured by her mysterious ways. And she will never reveal herself to you, or to anyone else, subconsciously striving to keep love at abeyance.
You'll want to hold her. You'll want to spoon against her small frame in a soft bed, shrouded among satin sheets. You'll want to brush the careless strands of hair off her face when you wake up next to her in the morning. You'll want to spend hours sitting next to her under a cherry tree in full bloom, familiarizing her with your hopes and dreams and aspirations - painting for her a vivid future together with you, persuading her of your intentions. She'll hear you out. And true to her shallow self, she'll look into your eyes like she meant for herself to be yours. Maybe she'll even allow herself to love you briefly. Yet she will invite you not behind her picket fence.

And deep inside you'll know that someday her steadfast profundity would get the better of her. And then, she'll look through you unmidfully again and walk past you breezily again - as if she walked back into the pages of the classic novel you'd once been engrossed in. And she will silently pride herself on her irrelevance again, and that of yours.

And in stolid abandon, you'll let her go back behind the picket fence - to the realm of un-belonging, where she belongs.

On Beauty, as Substitute for Love.

"Beauty is my hobby."

As she spoke these words, from behind my closed eyes I could feel her soft, nimble fingers and probing eyes examine my face for effects of malign toxins on my skin. There I was, barely 21, on my first trip to Singapore, lying on a comfortable bed in a dark corner of a nondescript little beauty salon in the West Avenue Market of Bukit Batok. I had gone there placing my trust solely on the recommendation of my aunt, and I could see why she adored the little woman who was in love with beauty.

"You have nice skin." she said. "But you're still young, lah." She added, with that expression so characteristic of Singlish. "How old you?" she asked me and I replied. "How old you think I am?" she asked, and still with eyes shut, I tried to picture her face and estimated. "Maybe 27-28." I could imagine the smug smile on her face as she said "No lah, but I will tell you. And I will give you tips."

Over the next couple of hours, as she proceeded to give me a facial massage, efficiently and painlessly stuck needles over designated points on my face, wrapped my face with therapeutic herbs, covered my eyes with a cool vitamin C pack and my face with sweet smelling face pack; she told me her life story. Her husband had abandoned her 10 years ago, for a young Vietnamese girl. And now she was a single mother of a 11 year old son. I tried to picture her face again. Could I have missed a detail while trying to estimate her age? Maybe I should take another good look at her when I open my eyes, I thought.

Through the entire process of the facial treatment, I listened to her talking about her daily beauty routine. She had given up food which caused toxins to accumulate in the body, including most of meat based products, hot spices, what we in India know as "Tamasik" food. "I love my chicken too much to give it up" I mused to myself. She kept giving me "tips": "wash your face with cold rice water every morning and night", "dilute the shampoo you use with water before applying to head" or "don't let the shampoo lather touch the skin of your back or your arms, always wash hair facing down". Though I listened patiently, and quite curiously, I doubted I would ever be so dedicated to my "beauty routine".

Then she said something that caught me off-guard: "I became beautiful after my husband left me." I was 21 and not nearly half as experienced in the matters of love as I am today. But I understood what a heart-break was. It doesn't take much imagination and experience to understand pain; it only requires you to be human. I sensed that even 10 years after being abandoned, this woman was still vulnerable enough to share something so personal with a complete stranger. However, I found her take on loss of love, interesting, to say the least. To me it seemed that she had substituted the pursuit of love in her life, with the pursuit of beauty. I had never before imagined the two things to be comparable even, they operated on different spheres, from where I saw them then.

At the end of the routine, when I finally opened my eyes, she showed me a photo of hers, as she was 10 years back. Could it be! I thought. This woman had lost almost 15 years. She was nearly 40, and now that I could see her with my eyes wide open, I would have bet she was not more than 25, had I not known any better. Gone were the puffy dark patches under the eyes, the slight crow feet and beginning of wrinkles at the corners of the mouth. This could be straight out of the "before-and-after" ads for age control creams. Except, this was real, and was achieved not with a miracle cream but after consistent effort over 10 years.

A few months back when I was suffering from hopeless post-traumatic stress, one of the days while I was crossing a road I found myself wishing for a truck to come and hit me. At a level of mindfulness this shocked me in fact; for even at my worst, I have never been the suicidal kinds. Desperate to save myself from the clutch of those dementors, I got myself an appointment for a facial and hair spa at my favourite salon. By the end of the day, as lame as it may sound, while I looked at my radiant face in the mirror, I was once again convinced that I had reason to live.

When I dress up, I am a different person. Once someone from office even remarked after seeing a photo of me from a party that I had attended the night before, that it was "such a deceptive photo." I laugh it off; for the 'me' in power specs and corporate attire, with no makeup and bed hair that refuses to settle down, is probably more fake than the 'me' in a little black dress, wearing eye makeup and plum lipstick, flirting with a man over a glass of martini, and devising for myself a fake name, identity and phone number to give away to him by the end of the night, simply for the fun of being able to hide behind a face that no one recognizes by the day. I find the shallowness of beauty to be as compelling as the depth of love. Ask any drag-queen and hear them concur with me.

Over the years, the versatility of beauty, has helped me use it as a substitute, albeit only temporarily, for love, hope, happiness and sometimes even truth. When I feel ugly, I get a facial. When I feel unloved, I paint my nails a fiery red. When I feel unwanted, I get a bikini wax. When I doubt myself, I lose those glasses, pluck my eyebrows, wear cat-eye kohl and look straight into the mirror at myself with a fresh resolve. When I am tired of the disappointments in life, I get a head and body massage. When I feel hopeless, I wear my white dress and pearls and the future suddenly turns bright again. When I feel low on confidence, I wear those 3-inch high heels and my esteem stands taller. When I feel charmless, I wear a dainty silk scarf and large sun shades that give me an air of eminence.

You must have heard Desree crooning "love will save the day." Well, I simply can't wait around for love to salvage my days for me.

Beauty, is my saviour.

Wouldn't you love to come with me...

to a Sunday Brunch, Darling?

I'd wear the classic white dress and pearls. While you wear that favorite tweed blazer of yours, with a white shirt and cotton trousers and don't bother with a tie.

How about a little brasserie down by the Thames; would you like that? You could carry your flamenco guitar in there and we could get a table by the riviera.

We would walk in, our heads held high, our every movement frozen in art. People engrossed in meal and conversation would take a moment and notice us and then get back to their humdrum. They do not know how to reinstate magic, to a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Do we notice them, you ask, and I say well, not really, not today. Today we reserve ourselves to our bubbles; confine ourselves to the indulgences of a good life. Today we be the Epicures, we live for beauty, for gluttony, for art and for respite from the mundane. For these few hours, we are the dancing characters of a snow globe, oblivious to the world around us; arrested in our moment while the world spins past our eyes, as if on board a merry-go-round.

They must think we're lovers. I find the thought amusing, and I can see, so do you. Hardly do they know, that you are me and I am you and the affair of our friendship is only incidental to who we are. But let us brush aside the matter of our affinity for the time being.

We seat ourselves by the café's portico and let our gaze rest upon the bustling traffic on the Thames. Had it been any other day, I would have asked for some Sashimi, Caviar and Sake, but today, let us gratify our senses with the Mediterranean delights, shall we? A platter of Mezze and a bottle of Sambuca as apértif. Why not wine, you ask. And I say, let us be true to our rebellious souls.

The redolent Tabuleh, seasoned with olive and thyme, after a morsel of Pitta and Hummus make for a perfect beginning. Anybody else would call them appetizers, but we're Indian, Darling. We believe that a satisfied tongue is a good beginning; a sign of a fair tidings. Looks like this is going to be a good meal eh?

We talk; not about the stock market, even though we can. Instead, you explain to me that it is proportions of the coconut milk, the basil and the lemon-grass that make all the difference between a regular and that perfect Thai green curry. I neck down a shot of the Sambuca. We remind each other of our past explorations of anise flavoured drinks. I preferred the Ouzo, I tell you, but gulp down another shot of the Sambuca anyway.

We discuss the subtle differences between the impressionist style of Monet as opposed to that of Van Gogh. Meanwhile, you pull out your guitar and begin to strum. I let my fingers fiddle with the pearls girdling my neck while I look upon the Thames, hardly a moon river in mid day, and sing along.

"Two drifters off to see the world, there's such a lot of world to see...
We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting round the bend, my Huckleberry Friend"

A few people applaud and we acknowledge their kindness with a grateful nod. It is time for the main course already.

I am unable to resist a craving for the Stuffed Pasta Shells, pregnant with sumptuous mozzarella, pureed veggies and minced meat, served with aromatic salad, which I believe is a jealously guarded recipe belonging to the northern Italy. You, on the other hand, are ready to move past Italy from Greece, into France and are in mood for some Spinach and Pancetta Quiche. It is only fair Darling, that we offer our due respects to el España, and order Sangria for accompaniment. I choose white wine as base, while you clearly have a preference for the varieties of red.

You wonder whether you should end with a Tiramisu. You never quite got over the taste of brandy in chocolate now, did you? I sigh and declare, that as always, it is only going to be a baked New York Cheese Cake, from across the seas, for me. Ambrosia, for afters. We toast our Sangria, to the Good Life.

It's going to be a date, Darling, with the finer things in life.

Pixie. Because I'm cool like that.

Don't believe anyone when they say that a girl's femininity lies in the length of her hair. It's a bogus claim. Truth being said, I have never felt this feminine in a long, long time. Add to this femininity, a dash of juvenile exuberance, and that's how I'd describe my close crop experience.

When my Pa saw a photo of my new hairdo for the first time, he instantly hated it. "You look like a wet bird!" he exclaimed. "I feel like a wet birdie, Pa!" I told him. I can now do a little head shimmy when I appear out of the shower, just like a wet bird. And I love the way my hair sticks out, making me look all pixie-like. The only maintenance it requires of me, is to wear an occasional wax and to wildly dandle up my hair with my hand. And honestly, the dirtier it gets, the better it looks!

Oh, and I'd forgotten in all these long haired years, how large my eyes really are. Or maybe they just seem larger now, making me look like those wide-eyed anime characters. I now wear kohl often and leave those glasses behind. My mane stands prouder. My naked clavicle begs to be flaunted in strappy dresses, off-shoulders, tube tops and to be adorned in retro tie-up scarves. I even bought little diamond studs to wear in my ears, which is kind of a big deal, because I never used to wear any jewelry at all. But now my ears demanded attention. When I wear those short bangs on my forehead, hold a cigarette, and make small talk, I feel very 'Audrey Hepburn', and want to refer to random people as "Darlings"!

I feel 16 again, or younger (and if you know me, you know I could get away with that easily). I feel like a girl who could get caught sneaking into the club without an ID, but who takes her chances anyway. The girl who the men at the bar give that "does your mother know?" look. I feel like I can get away with finagling for a drink on the house if only I could let my little-girl-eyes grow wide and pout about my drink getting over so soon. Who knows, I could pull off a floozy even, like Natalie Portman!

It all makes sense now that I should wear my hair short, though I wonder why I never tried it before. Long hair is meant for girls who grow up wanting to be Princesses. I was never that girl. I didn't grow up dreaming about a Cinderella story, looking for a Prince Charming. Me? I wanted to be a fairy; a pixie, like Tinker Bell. I would merrily settle for the role of the green, jealous side kick to the boy who never grew up. I wouldn't, I couldn't settle for being a damsel in distress, no Sir! No moping around in the dark corner of a tower, waiting for Knight in Shining Armour for me. Even as a little girl I thought I was better than that. My life was meant to be an adventure; it was meant for mischief and magic, for rafting down the Mississippi, for tackling Capt'n Hook, for surviving an island filled with cannibals. These are the stories I grew up reading and loving. Not fairy tales, mehh. Rapunzel is such a passé.

Of late I have been feeling that wide eyed little girl take over my personality again. She's mocking my 25 long years, willing me to get silly and naughty.

If you'd like to hear it from Mary Garden of 1920s, as she explained in her Article titled "Why I Bobbed my Hair":

"Bobbed hair is a state of mind and not merely a new manner of dressing my head.… I consider getting rid of our long hair one of the many little shackles that women have cast aside in their passage to freedom."

I do believe that this "freedom" is largely mistaken for imitated masculinity. When a woman cuts her hair, she doesn't necessarily sacrifice her femininity. Quite the opposite actually, it could metaphorically be described as a celebration of the innate femininity of a woman, which has nothing to do with her outer appearance; a femininity which is free spirited.

Coco Chanel once said "A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life". There's got to be some truth in that. You reckon?