It was all too fitting, I guess. I began the year wanting to tour South East Asia. The idea was to spend the long weekends with a trip out of the peninsular, on a shoestring. And by September, I was fortunate enough to have covered Bali, Bangkok, Singapore, Jakarta, Bandung and Hanoi… which is nothing to shout about really. That’s barely half of the ASEAN countries, three of them are in Indonesia and I was in Vietnam for business. More importantly, I’m missing arguably the region’s most exotic location: Borneo. Third largest in the world, the island boasts lush green rainforests and majestic mountains as natural habitats, providing refuge to some of the planet’s most endangered species. Or at least that was what they wrote on the Internet. It was quite embarrassing to realize that I’d never been there in my 26 years of living, as a Malaysian. Maybe I was too keen on venturing out of the country just for the sake of it. Maybe I’ve underestimated the stories of those enchanted by the island. Or maybe, I’ve become complacent by the fact that I could go there anytime. So it was all too fitting, indeed, for me to fly off to Kota Kinabalu, Sabah… with the Godbros.  Tinggi tinggi Gunung Kinabalu, tinggi lagi sayang pada kamu, Biru biru hujung Kinabalu, tengok dari jauh, hati saya rindu. Syah apart, none of us had ever been to Borneo, let alone KK. But that’s possibly only because he’s actually from Sabah as otherwise, I doubt he’ll travel beyond Taman Desa. We were quite excited, in essence. Perhaps not knowing what to expect only fuels our anxiety and judging by the extensive itinerary that Ikram had meticulously prepared after inquiring with about 46 Sabahans for the past two months, we knew deep inside that the trip would be epic, and half of the planned activities will not happen. Upon our arrival at Terminal 2 of the KK International Airport, we were warmly greeted by our self-elected ‘host’ Syah who was actually (and oddly enough) on the same flight. “Welcome to my turf! Losers!" he howled at our faces as we landed our maiden steps onto the soils of the Land Beneath the Wind. I’m guessing that there is a more customary way for the locals to welcome their guests. The notion was still, nevertheless, embraced.  Kinabalu dekat di Kundasang, banyak sayur boleh pilih pilih Apa guna pergi luar negeri, naik Kinabalu, hati saya rindu. After checking in at the Imperial Boutec (great location, by the way), we drove north toward Tanjung Simpang Mengayau near Kudat. Driving through the towns of Tuaran and Kota Belud, the 3-hour journey got me rather immersed in the sights and sounds of Sabah. Mountains and paddy fields paved the way along the road, into the jungles as we approached our destination. On the radio, was Othoe, possibly the state’s most popular DJ, whose tagline is “ATUKOI!" which he’ll shout out randomly; especially when you least expect it. Pretty much explains why Syah enjoys screaming into Ajep’s ears whenever he’s asleep in front of the TV.  Tanjung Simpang Mengayau, otherwise known as the (northern-most) Tip of Borneo, means ‘lingering junction’ where South China Sea ‘lingers’ and meet up with the Sulu Sea. A bit like Uluwatu, overlooking the Indian Ocean in Bali. It’s actually the tip of the wolf’s ear if you look at the map of Sabah. The breathtaking view is only to be witnessed, I suppose. I’m having a hard time describing it. There are just too many words for it. A pointer though: enjoy the sunset with your loved one. A part of me dies a little every time I recall myself being at these places with no less than three guys.  Sumandak sumandak pun ramai menunggu, menari-nari lenggang Sumayau, Sekali melihat melepak kulitnya, saya jatuh cinta. A lot has been said about the seafood in Sabah. Legend has it that they are the freshest. And cheapest in the world. Which is true. Unless it’s in downtown KK. Where we went. Where they had almost probably everything from the sea. Except for mermaids. And maybe Nemo. Where we wiped clean four aquariums. Before we nearly went back to the hotel with a gonad less each. So unless you’re prepared to eat like Jabba the Hut and spend like Mike Tyson, drive a few kilometers away into the suburbs and check out the seafood restaurants there. Those are a bit more humane. Nelayan Restaurant in Bukit Padang is pretty good. What you can’t find anywhere else but downtown KK, though, are the legendary Roti Cobra and Soto joints we found. Roti Cobra, FYI -- apart from being the greatest culinary creation in history, and as the name implies -- consists of regular Roti Canai initially smoldered with barely cooked sunny side up egg on top to play the role of as the adhesion matter which would later have to endure the wrath of curry and dhal with the option of chicken, beef or mutton. So the sensation endured when eating the first bite is that of twisted harmony where the untouched portion of the Roti is finally matched with the other sides as if fairies are dancing on your tongue. It’s just so good I couldn’t make sense of things anymore. Kedai Makan Islamic dan Hotel (don’t ask) located opposite of Maybank in Kg. Air is the way to go.  Soto in Sabah, on the other hand, comes in a variety of fashions. There’s the light one where the soup opens up a thousand possibilities for you to alter and improvise on the desired taste upon your utilization the condiments on the table. My, kind of badass Soto comes in the unforgiving form that could only be found at Restoran Happy Muslim (again, don’t ask) in Sinsuran. With the perfect combination of spices in the soup and generous portion of chicken or beef garnished with the right amount of herbs and a zing of lemon on top, the fairies you had dancing earlier will reappear and dance on your tongue yet again. Be a bit patient at the restaurant though, it could get a bit packed. Other notable mentions include Rojak Daging, Ambuyat, Nasi Lalap, Nasi Goreng Liking, Buah Tarap, Kuih Cincin and Syah’s favorite local delicacy, the Spicy Chicken McDeluxe.  Saya sayang sayang Kinabalu, Kaamatan pesta bulan lima, Sayang sayang kita pergi tamu jalan Tamparuli, hati saya rindu. You can’t go to KK and not hop on the islands. A mere 30 – 45 minutes boat ride from the Jesselton Point would take you to the islands within the Tunku Abdul Rahman Marine Park namely Gaya, Sulug, Manukan, Mamutik and Sapi. Being the adventurous souls that we are and in pursuit of quenching our thirst for action, we opted for the first boat out to Gaya Island for a fishing trip. No more than 20 minutes into the merciless waves of the ocean however, Ajep and our new friend Sarip were the only men standing. The rest of us, on the other hand, were in the restlessness of wanting to throw up from being seasick. We weren’t as steadfast as we thought, apparently. Well that and the fact that Syah took off his shirt -- never a sight to endure.  Being the kind men that they were, Ajep and Sarip dropped us off at Sapi Island with our snorkeling sets before jaunting off to the other side of the rock for more fishing action. Swimming through the blue waters of the area, wandering deeper into the ocean, I struggled to locate the spots that could live up to the expectation built by stories of the Sabahan underwater. Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps the stories were about diving instead. Or perhaps other islands could offer more. Snorkeling there was a bit sub-par, for strangely, all I could see were eels. All belonging to Judd, Syah and Ikram, probably. Which were also sub-par. Forget I ever wrote that.  I shall not write much about the nightlife in KK. Let’s just say that it’s only for the visitors to unearth.  Kinabalu dekat di Kundasang, banyak sayur bulih pilih pilih, Apa guna pergi luar negeri naik Kinabalu, hati saya rindu. I’ve never been that big on souvenirs, to be honest. The smiles of the locals were memorable enough for me to bring home and cherish forever. Plus, there are always pictures. The rest of us, on the other hand, would even bring home the entire Jesselton jetty, given half the chance. So you could imagine the commotion involved as they were bargaining around at the Filipino Market. Featuring a wide range of local handicrafts and pearl jewelries, I reckon the place could occupy you ladies out there a few good hours (or days, if you’re there with Judd). The sellers were quite amused, at the very least. Witnessing the guys push themselves to the limit in trying to sound like a local was entertainment like no other. As in KK, it’s hard for you to sound like a local unless you’re a local. So adding ‘bah’ or ‘suda’ after every sentence may not necessarily work. Alas, they had to resort to Syah to haggle around. Still to no effect, as they’d usually call him up after agreeing on a price, only to tell the seller that he’s from Kuala Penyu.  Sumandak sumandak pun ramai menunggu, menari-nari lenggang Sumayau, Sekali melihat melepak kulitnya, saya jatuh cinta. I’ve always had a soft spot for Kuala Penyu, though I’ve never been there. Located about two hours south of KK, via Papar and Beaufort, Kuala Penyu is famous for its beaches and proximity to Tiga Island, where they shot the first season of Survivor. Syah has been talking about his beloved hometown for as long as we’ve known him. So going there, I for one was rather intrigued in knowing more about this township. Laidback, and void of traffic, I could say that we fell in love with the place quite instantly. It’s just far… away… you know. Away from the nonsense that we’re constantly occupied and bugged with in life, in the city. Away from the noise that we’re used to have wrenched into our ears. Away from the price that we’ve been paying for industrialization. In Kuala Penyu, life, is much simpler. The way it should be.  Our arrival was greeted by the warmth of Syah’s family at the home of Cikgu Ali Hassan, his father. While we wasted no time before prowling around the household to snap pictures of younger Syah -- or Awang, as he is known at home -- Ajep had the opportunity to catch up with the family, who knows him very well. Quite appropriately and accurately, we're better off known by Syah's mother as the chubby one, the polite one, the dark one and the one without a sense of humor. Who is which is all for your guessing. We were then brought to the Kuala Penyu jetty, known to be the longest in Asia. Stretching at about 1km, I was initially baffled in figuring out its actual function. There weren’t any elevation leading to the bridge and there were no boats in sight. After further explanation from Apik, Syah’s younger brother, who knows the place 150 times better than he does, the jetty is actually currently used for fishing. Deep water probably, judging by shore fishing standards. The view was marvelous and within sight, was the infamous Tiga Island.  At home, dinner was ready. Syah’s family was all too gracious in preparing us with a huge, seafood feast and the long-awaited Ambuyat to top it all off. Ambuyat is a traditional delicacy made out of sago. We managed to stop by a market in Beaufort on the way to grab a bag on the way earlier. It’s basically a sticky matter to be rolled with a chopstick before you dip it in the gravy of your choice. Alternatively, and I’m not sure if the locals do this, I could see the potential of the same dish to be turned into desert should you dip it in condensed milk or shredded coconut. Ecstatic. Our utmost heartfelt gratitude for Syah’s family for the amazingly great time.  Saya sayang sayang Kinabalu, Kaamatan pesta bulan lima,
Sayang sayang kita pergi tamu jalan Tamparuli, hati saya rindu. The last destination before heading home was Kundasang, near the valleys of Mt. Kinabalu. And joining our journey was our good Sabahan friend, Jasper. The trip up to the village took no more than two hours and along the way was Tamparuli, the hometown of one of the country’s most adored songstress and my true love, Marsha. Few have claimed otherwise, unsurprisingly. We stayed at the Kinabalu Heritage Resort, securing a chalet for the six of us. Given that our arrival was already quite late in the evening and it was raining, though, there was nothing to be seen.  The next morning, however, I was awoken by the sound of a ravenous grunt coming from the other side of the hall. As our chalet was located quite close to the heart of the jungle, the thought of a Sumatran Rhinoceros dropping by did cross my mind. Maybe I didn’t have to venture deep into the jungle after all to get a glimpse of the near-extinct creature. Upon further investigation, though, I was devastated to find out that the sound was actually coming from the nostrils of the guys who were still sleeping like a row of logs. And there I was, enjoying the majestic view of the great Mt. Kinabalu with the sound of my snoring friends filling up the air. What have I done wrong to deserve all these?  Sayang sayang kita pergi tamu jalan Tamparuli, hati saya rindu. As any other memorable vacations would lead to, leaving KK couldn’t be any more difficult. Six days flew by too soon and possibly only another visit could do for us to spend more time discovering all that KK has got to offer. We saw new places. We ate new food. We did new stuff and most importantly, we made new friends. Jasper, I guess we’ll all be feasting out whenever you’re in town. Ada, Joy, Aimi, Raihan, you guys have been remarkably wonderful hosts and only a turn for us to take you around would suffice in repaying your awesomeness. Rol, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this but, let it be known that you are much cooler than your cousin Awang; if that’s complimentary enough by any measure.  We left for KL with the heaviest of hearts and the bulk of us couldn’t stop looping Sayang Kinabalu on the stereo. I will always have a hard time figuring out where to begin in talking about KK. There are simply too many things to talk about. From the trenches of the ocean, to the heights of the mountains, to the depths of the jungles, KK has got it all. I suppose it’s the serenity of its nature and the opulence of its culture that bring out the warmth and kindness of its people. The warmth and kindness that portray, embody and represent everything about Sabah. There’s simply no reason to not go there. Unless you’re going with this guy.  Lyrics: Kimin Mudin - Sayang Kinabalu
 
 They had an interesting discussion on the radio this morning. The DJ was asking listeners to call in and talk about men. Men who beautify themselves. No I don't intend to take a dig at some of you gentlemen out there who prefer to live a fabulous life of threaded eyebrows and shimmery glistening fingernails. I thoroughly respect the choice. If it's the radiant glow of your T-zone after a 3-hour, RM849.37, facial rejuvenation treatment that makes you happy, then I say go for it... girlfriend. What caught my attention however, was a caller who voiced out her worry about her husband who had suddenly developed a strong concern over his appearance. Which did sound a bit odd at first. For most of the recently married guys I know face the struggle of getting used to grooming appliances e.g. a comb. Anyway, according to her, they're facing some trouble getting out of the house on time for work. With the husband now taking more time in the bathroom and in front of the mirror, she's forced to wake up much earlier to dress up. In other words, her personal space has been indirectly invaded simply because her husband wants to 'bejewel it like Beckham' in the morning. And I, for one, do feel sorry for her. You see, guys, the license to spend ages getting dressed is, I believe, every woman's birthright. They're warranted to do so. There's no two ways about it. It's a universally agreed understanding; whether we like it or not. A luxury, we're guilty of robbing from them should we ever question the logic behind say, putting on some makeup before they get out of the car; to pay the toll for example. Even if you have to wait in the car -- or, worse off, in the living room with her younger siblings who'll just sit there and awkwardly stare at you -- for three hours, you are only to shower her with praises when she's finally (if ever) ready. It doesn't matter if you're already late to that Twilight sequel you both got tickets to. No of course she was the one who chose the movie. For all that matters is that, she looks as stunning as Scarlett Johansson. Or at the very least, you lead her into believing it. As much as you have the strong urge to do so, pointing out how the three hours made no difference is never, and I mean never never ever, an option. Legend has it that after growing impatient while waiting for his then girlfriend Pattie Boyd to get ready for a function, Eric Clapton wrote a song. One that would later become one of the most heartfelt love songs ever written. And what did he say to her in it? "I say yes, you look wonderful tonight." Goes to saying how long it took her to get ready, though. Long enough for Eric to write a chart-topping hit.
 I've always been ambitious. Even as a child, I would never settle for anything less than the best. I went to the under-10 tryouts despite being three years younger. I attempted to save up for a Nikko Ferrari Enzo, only the hottest remote control car at the time; costing no less than a kidney. And in my effort to win the heart of the most beautiful girl at our playground, I wrote perhaps one of the most compelling poems in history. None of the goals ever surprisingly materialized. The handwritten poem was found nicely crumpled in a gutter. Yet, just as well, none of them ever bogged me down either. I've been quite resilient to failures and believe me, there have been one too many. Maybe I'm a firm believer in the 'things that don't kill you making you stronger' philosophy. Or maybe I'm excessively human that I can somehow accept mistakes as a work of nature. More probably though... I just got used to blunders. Recently, however, a string of thoughts have led to the notion of putting both my ambition and resilience to the test. There seems to be this bombardment of ideas suddenly surging out of my brain. A host of things that I suddenly want to get myself involved in. A strong urge to push myself to the limit. A sudden expansion on the list of things that I plan to do in life; which previously only had '1. Judge Miss Universe' on it. I wanted to accomplish things by the age of 30: release a record, get a book published, write a screenplay. I wanted to cover South East Asia by the end of 2009 and the Oceania in the coming year. I wanted to run four days a week with a round of football at the end of it. I wanted to surpass the number of dates I was out on in the past year (0.5, she left half-way, a call came in, her cat died, for the second time... nope, same cat). All of which, were parts of a phase, I initially thought. Until a good friend of mine mentioned the rather dreaded 3-word term, 'quarter-life crisis'. A possible conclusion that I won't discount. While I could painstakingly describe the term as 'a crisis that you face when you reach quarter-life', QuarterLifeCrisis.com -- yes, it exists -- defines it as 'a period of anxiety, uncertainty and inner turmoil that often accompanies the transition to adulthood'; which only makes as much sense as a straight member of the Village People in my book. Why call it a crisis though? If that is what I'm actually going through. A crisis is a disaster, a catastrophe, an emergency, a calamity, a predicament and everything else that is ever represented by Lady Gaga. Wanting to do a bunch of things all of sudden, unless it involves terrorism, is nowhere near a crisis. It sparks questions, true. But it's not too bad, at all. In fact, I'll go as far as to saying that it is to be embraced. At 26, and three years into my career as an analyst in the chemical industry (yawn), I believe the phenomenon is largely due to the stagnant state of my life. I drive for an hour to the office in the morning, spend eight hours in my cubicle, spend another hour on the road cursing at other drivers, head on to the treadmill in the evening then maybe work on some music or waste my precious time on the Internet (i.e. sites like this blog) before I hit the sack, five days a week. If it weren't for the weekends, I'll only be as human as Robocop. And nobody can bear doing the same thing for the next 30 years now, would they? Venturing into new domains seems all too fitting then if it keeps you alive. Considering the majority of the readers on here are my peers, probably some of you out there are going through the same thing. And to you, my friends, in the words of one of the largest sportswear conglomerate in the world to the disgust of hippies everywhere, I say just do it. In addition, I believe we could all agree as well, that if there's any crisis it out there at all, it's in the form of the oddball that is Lady Gaga.
A layer of remorseful sorrow blanketed my soul as I set my eyes on the scene. My heart, shatters into a million little pieces of grief at the disheartening sight of children laying flat on the ground, looking seemingly devoid of any hope. Some crawled aimlessly around my legs while others, slouching on their backs, mumbled what seemed to be their last words in life. Images from the tragic scenes of Hotel Rwanda flashed by me. Perhaps, just as Don Cheadle in the movie, I was sent in as a savior to these helpless young beings. Puzzled as I was, in their eyes I found the answer. None of them stared in a different direction. And as I gazed along the same path, leading to clock on the wall, it was clear that I wasn't their savior. For she was in the kitchen, in the form of our lovely grandmother, preparing the evening's feast while conveniently 'comforting' my little cousins by telling them that there's "only an hour to go"... for the past three hours. It's been a good few weeks now since the beginning of the fasting month and we're all well into the big family's buka puasa session at my grandparents' in Kg. Pandan which, for your information, is nowhere near Rwanda. With the incredible blend of scents emanating from the mountain of plates -- from my uncles and aunts' home kitchen to the dinner table -- it wasn't too long before I found myself hobbling pointlessly together with the kids. The closer we got to Maghrib, the slower it was for the arms of the clock to move. Time simply stood still. When we finally reached the final two minutes before the azan on TV, the kids held their own countdown, one memorized Ramadhan ad after another; tightly clutching on to their drinks in the process. And rightfully, the clock struck 716pm. While the adults calmly minced on some dates and sipped in plain water, their young ones were deservedly gulping into glass after glass of their favorite glucose-induced drinks. During which, yours truly struggled to keep his plate empty. Possibly still seen as the growing boy that he was 10 years ago by the relatives, the food just kept on coming my way. At the end of the day, it was gleaming smiles all around. Which is what, at least to me, the month is all about. A time of reflection and a period where your patience is being put to the ultimate test. I could barely recall the number of times I get downright groggy over having to face last night's dinner at 5am under the appetite of an anorexic supermodel. The number of times I had to hold my anger in from belting out the usual curse words when I'm on the road. The number of times I howled a huge, stretching yawn during an afternoon meeting at the office. The many things that I've overlooked since last Ramadhan, which was also the last time I had any sense of appreciation for the smaller things in life. The joy of wolfing down on a plate of nasi lemak in the morning. The joy of chugging down a cold bottle of Gatorade under the hot sun. The joy of basically having the ability to consume food, for energy, for the things that we plan to do in life. Even the simplest of things. And it's with such realization that I managed to utilize the past, rather sedentary, month to plan out the many things that I've been meaning to do. As much as I used to dread the fasting month as a child, time has matured me into seeing it in a much clearer perspective. The many underlying messages that the holy month brings are only for us to unearth. And it is, quite amazing how you are brought to those discoveries. For which, I couldn't be thankful enough. Hopefully my little cousins could feel the same as well someday. On that note, before I sign off for the week-long break, my sincerest apologies for any wrongdoings in the past and may you have a brilliant Raya ahead. No apologies for the picture below though. I ran out of decent ones. 
 This past weekend, my family had the pleasure of hosting the monthly neighborhood security watch meeting at our place. And little that I know, never having attended any of the previous meetings, and playing the role of my parent's right hand man for the day, apart from rigorously coordinating the F&B setup and logistic arrangements, hosting such a gathering would also mean having to endure, above anything else, bad jokes. Especially when you're the sole representative of your generation. With the kids already locking themselves up in the playroom seconds into entering the house, the moms meticulously analyzing the new curtain and no one from my age group within sight, I was left with no choice but to hang out with the street's kings of comedy (or so they thought), the dads. They're always a lively bunch... the dads. And I'm pretty sure you've seen them before. They're everywhere. From weddings to open houses to reunions to the golf course, usually seen in a circle and generating occasional burst of laughters loud enough to deafen a baby elephant, the dads can never get enough of their own jokes; most of which revolve around the subjects of politics, their wives, work, their better halves, sports, their life partners, the traffic and the mothers to their children. “Here's a good one, here's a good one... I got it off the Internet and tried it out right away. We were getting ready to go out the other day and I went, honey, you can definitely dress to kill, can't you? Surely you can cook for that too! HAHAHAHAHA!” “HAHAHAHAHA!” They do make me wonder, though. Given the number of men who share the similar trait once they become dads and are well in their 40s and beyond, would I, some time in the future, end up like them as well? Sure they are, more often than not, much adored and revered for being the lovely men that they are. Yet the prospect of living a life of finding enjoyment in bad humor -- which some say we already are, doing -- does terrify me. What terrifies me further, though, are the glimpses of them that I'm starting to see in us. Usually during gatherings, I usually find myself inadvertently forming this circle with my friends. One that resembles that of the dads'. And before you know it, we're already replicating their iconic burst of laughters. Only that, our jokes, are always of the most superior of qualities. To which people outside the circle, however, would usually strongly beg to differ. Together with the majority of our girl friends, who often label our jokes as, mildly put, utterly dreadful, my own little sisters have been our harshest critics. As every time I crack a joke that would never fail with the guys, I receive nothing more complimentary than a hairbrush being thrown my way. I guess those are the very reasons behind people's variety in accepting different types of humor. The dads are, in fact, old enough to be our dads. My sisters are actually young enough to believe that becoming a 'princess' is a valid career aspiration. And our girl friends are, as far as we can tell, women. Age and gender differences' role behind it all are simply all too significant. But I reckon through time, the whole cycle would still eventually repeat itself, whether we like it or not. As much as we'd like to age like Sean Connery, we'd still have to reluctantly admit that our waistlines are getting no smaller, our hairlines are getting no thicker and our sense of fashion are, at least according to the girls, so last Thursday. Just as we're finding the elderly's jokes unbearable today, our kids will someday find our jokes just as dire. For we are all, after all, men; us and the dads. And what makes a man, are his charisma, and sense of humor. I'm sure our future wives could back us up on that someday. So long as... they're not literally on our backs and breaking 'em! HAHAHAHAHA! Oh dear.
 I don't think it was that long ago when I wrote about my single most horrified fear as a child: my cousins. While most of my peers back then feared Freddy Krueger, Herman Munster, Beetlejuice and our neighborhood dentist, it may have sounded a little strange of me to be afraid of boys my age who weren't even old enough to zip their own pants; without risking their manhood. Alas that, was the reality. For these boys were wholly responsible for causing me emotional distress from their constant jibe for being the only cousin to be circumcised at the tender, tender age of 3-days old. "The one you had 'didn't count'..!" they used to jeer into the nightmares that haunted me for years to come. And I'd be lying to say that imageries of having to someday line up for the snip-doctor together with my own kids never crossed my mind. But gone were those days. Growing up, I've been educated sufficiently enough in school, and over the Internet, to understand that the one I had... did count! Nevertheless, I am but immortal; as anyone else. And fear, can never be foreign enough to us. From their kids, I have now become afraid of my uncles. It's not that they scare me off like Santa do babies or anything. Though I do recall one of them disguising himself as a moving blanket to spook us out; before tripping down. That aside, my uncles are perhaps some of the finest gentlemen around. As much as they are loved and revered as great dads, it is their receding hairline that frightens me. Being related by blood to them, with my dad already surrendering to shining baldness and my younger brother losing hair faster than the speed of light, it is not impossible that I may one day appear on Oprah... as Dr. Phil. As researches show how 25% of men begin balding at the age of 30, the potential of my own, genetically-induced hair loss, in four years time, has become increasingly, eerily inevitable. I've been fortuitously spared, thus far, I can safely say. Perhaps, I was blessed with my mom's gene. As photo albums of old hold evident, a family picture of my mom's side from the late 80s could give any big hair rock band a run for its money. So, there is hope. Is it really that bad though? I don't even have to go any further than some of my own friends to point out how baldness can actually work to your favor. In fact, while some of them began losing hair as soon as they hit puberty (instead of the other way around), these guys have had immense success in the social scene; dwarfing the likes of Alfie, Van Wilder and even to the extent of making Austin Powers look like Napoleon Dynamite. Well, figuratively speaking. Polls have shown how women find bald men appealing. The phenomenal achievements of Vin Diesel, Jason Statham, Andre Agassi, Michael Jordan and Homer Simpson are perhaps proof of just that. "They look wise..." and "It makes me wanna smear honey all over..." were some of the many complimentary remarks I've heard of bald men; told by women and men with questionable orientation. Who said which, is your call. It remains a dilemma, I have to admit. Many would agree. And given the option, I would very much prefer to have the choice to either style it out or shave it all off; as I wish. As it stands though, I have only so much control over my bodily functions. Here's to making enough money to afford Donald Trump's hairstylist. Or whatever it is that he actually styles. |
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