My Mother's Hairclip
My mother's hair-clip was a beautiful, ornately assembled sculpture of intricate beads carved out of tortoiseshell the colour of raw bacon. It was a mysterious cluster of separate, seemingly random pieces put together by an invisible wire and any young boy could stare at it for hours on end. My mother was right you know. You never forget something as beautiful as that. She also made it quite clear too that no one forgets something as horrible as losing it; the very memory of being responsible for it's disappearance was all the more unforgiving. So I use "was" because it is gone now. It's been so many years since I committed the crime that I wonder if perhaps mother might have forgotten about it herself. But as I have said, you never forget how exact it looks because you never forget the first look of anger and despair rolled into one furious and sad face that belonged to your own mother.
I must have been a child of five or six when it happened. I cannot add up the sequence of events that have led to the disappearance of the hair-clip but I shall try. My recollection is, after all, drawn from the constant replaying of events in my head from that virgin taste of guilt that evening coming home from the beach. There was two of us, my brother and I and of course, my parents on one of our many Sunday trips to the seaside. There was a time when, like obligatory Mass on Sundays, we'd set off for Changi. While my father swam laps in the sea, me and Ben would play along the shore under mother's watchful eyes. We always took a break for lunch when it got too hot. This would be mother's cue to lie down and rest. I remember that we'd pick a spot under one of the shady cashew trees that lined the beach right after father parked the car. That was the afternoon when we found a little one, with thick, twisted branches that you could quite easily climb on top of. There we were having our usual nasi-lemak rice lunch, quaffing down cold, canned drinks. It was a hot afternoon.
Mother had really long hair during those years. Her hair would sway when she let it loose and it's length would end where her waist began. I believed then, from watching shampoo advertisements on TV, that she was the reason why shampoos existed at all. Most of the time, her hair would be kept bundled into a ball, fastened by her beautiful hair-clip. Whenever I ran from the wet shore, speedily because the sand burned your soles, I could come up to right behind her and see mother's hair bun, kept in place by the clip. I must admit that the thought of pulling out her clip and setting her hair free was constantly on my mind. You could not do it once she stood up but at the beach, she was quite relaxed. She never entered the sea. She only sat there quietly looking out for us, and sometimes at the open sea. I know she does because I have spied her more than once. I wondered what was on her mind when she gets like that. But at least it was better than seeing her brood.
I remember looking up from where I was, ankle-deep in sea water. I raced Ben to our "base" and sat myself down on the ground-mat that mother was resting on. I must have decided to lie down and have a nap myself. It was one of those afternoons where the air was heavy and the thickness of heat draped all around us. Mother was in a restful state, lying arched like a spoon with one hand on the back of her head. Present in front of her, the hair-clip. As I prostrated myself in front of her, I leaned with my chin before it. Within seconds, mother's hair-clip transformed into a magical carriage. So like it usually does to this day, my mind is an undisciplined machinery of imagination. I can't remember where the carriage took me that afternoon but it must have been a magical journey for I did not even see my father running up from the shore, laughing and yelling at us while Ben chased after him from behind. "Hurry!" father called, "rain!" My magic journey had felt like hours.
Like clockwork we all hurried with keeping our stuff which were mostly our food (or what's left it) in tupperware boxes and the drinks igloo. I remember rising to put on our slippers, but not before we hosed the sand from our feet from a single bucket of water. It all happened really quickly, me, rising to my feet, magic carriage in hand. The magic carriage lost it's driver suddenly that moment and was last seen journeying over cliffs and precipices the colour of darkened cashew wood.
The rain fell like pebbles from the sky and both my brother and I were distracted by how quickly the bright skies could turn black, like that. "What are you doing? Hurry up!" my mother was in a packing frenzy now. "John!" It felt like seconds, how quickly everything was chucked away in the little Mitsubishi Lancer. The rain hammered onto the roof of the car and we felt safe. Before we knew it, we were on our way.
By the time my mother uttered her "aiyah!" it was too late. We were already too far from the beach. I remember this part more clearly than all the rest: Mother's despair as her hand reached out and touched the back of her head. Nothing. She did not even demand of us to search the car although we did, without asking. Father said that we could always get another one. My mother protested then kept silent. She did not say another word to me the rest of the day. Every stolen glance of mother touching the back of her head made me feel sick with guilt. It was like watching war movie scenes where a maimed soldier caressed a phantom limb that a stump replaced. By our next visit to Changi beach I could never enjoy the usual carefree frolick. My mission then was to find that short cashew tree where I must have placed the clip. Fruitless. By the time I accepted that I was never going to find it, my mind wove a blur of scenarios: perhaps another little boy has found it and made off to a magical place with it. Perhaps another woman found a new way of keeping her hair in place and made off with it. Or maybe the sea rose out during high-tide and swept against the tree, and made off with it.
Not too long ago I remember buying a hair-clip from the markets of Bangkok for mother. It struck a fair resemblance to the one that was lost. She looked at it, bewildered and declared after a while that she didn't have any use for it after all, saying look at her hair now: all short and not resting beyond her neck. She must have had a laugh and wondered what was going on in that head of mine. Had she forgotten all about it? I don't know. I know I haven't. I still wonder where she got the hair-clip from in the first place and what sentimental power it possessed to have caused her to mourn its loss. I still wonder sometimes if I might come across it one day in a thieves' market or on a sandy beach somewhere or maybe still resting on a twisted old cashew tree. I'd know exactly what I'd do. I'd take it down from the mysterious precipice, and steer it back to earth with my skillful hands and pilot it so that it would land safely on my mother's dressing table. I'd be spying mother from behind my pillow as she gasped in sweet surprise. She would chide herself for being so forgetful in the first place and pick it up. In her usual way she would brush her long black hair and weave the full length of it upwards, swiftly into a bun like she did every morning. Then she would fasten it all together with her favourite hair-clip. She'd turn around and in the usual motherly way, ask us to get up and get ready for kindergarten. Life would carry on from that like nothing ever happened.
My mother's hair-clip was a beautiful, ornately assembled sculpture of intricate beads carved out of tortoiseshell the colour of raw bacon. It was a mysterious cluster of separate, seemingly random pieces put together by an invisible wire and any young boy could stare at it for hours on end.
I must have been a child of five or six when it happened. I cannot add up the sequence of events that have led to the disappearance of the hair-clip but I shall try. My recollection is, after all, drawn from the constant replaying of events in my head from that virgin taste of guilt that evening coming home from the beach. There was two of us, my brother and I and of course, my parents on one of our many Sunday trips to the seaside. There was a time when, like obligatory Mass on Sundays, we'd set off for Changi. While my father swam laps in the sea, me and Ben would play along the shore under mother's watchful eyes. We always took a break for lunch when it got too hot. This would be mother's cue to lie down and rest. I remember that we'd pick a spot under one of the shady cashew trees that lined the beach right after father parked the car. That was the afternoon when we found a little one, with thick, twisted branches that you could quite easily climb on top of. There we were having our usual nasi-lemak rice lunch, quaffing down cold, canned drinks. It was a hot afternoon.
Mother had really long hair during those years. Her hair would sway when she let it loose and it's length would end where her waist began. I believed then, from watching shampoo advertisements on TV, that she was the reason why shampoos existed at all. Most of the time, her hair would be kept bundled into a ball, fastened by her beautiful hair-clip. Whenever I ran from the wet shore, speedily because the sand burned your soles, I could come up to right behind her and see mother's hair bun, kept in place by the clip. I must admit that the thought of pulling out her clip and setting her hair free was constantly on my mind. You could not do it once she stood up but at the beach, she was quite relaxed. She never entered the sea. She only sat there quietly looking out for us, and sometimes at the open sea. I know she does because I have spied her more than once. I wondered what was on her mind when she gets like that. But at least it was better than seeing her brood.
I remember looking up from where I was, ankle-deep in sea water. I raced Ben to our "base" and sat myself down on the ground-mat that mother was resting on. I must have decided to lie down and have a nap myself. It was one of those afternoons where the air was heavy and the thickness of heat draped all around us. Mother was in a restful state, lying arched like a spoon with one hand on the back of her head. Present in front of her, the hair-clip. As I prostrated myself in front of her, I leaned with my chin before it. Within seconds, mother's hair-clip transformed into a magical carriage. So like it usually does to this day, my mind is an undisciplined machinery of imagination. I can't remember where the carriage took me that afternoon but it must have been a magical journey for I did not even see my father running up from the shore, laughing and yelling at us while Ben chased after him from behind. "Hurry!" father called, "rain!" My magic journey had felt like hours.
Like clockwork we all hurried with keeping our stuff which were mostly our food (or what's left it) in tupperware boxes and the drinks igloo. I remember rising to put on our slippers, but not before we hosed the sand from our feet from a single bucket of water. It all happened really quickly, me, rising to my feet, magic carriage in hand. The magic carriage lost it's driver suddenly that moment and was last seen journeying over cliffs and precipices the colour of darkened cashew wood.
The rain fell like pebbles from the sky and both my brother and I were distracted by how quickly the bright skies could turn black, like that. "What are you doing? Hurry up!" my mother was in a packing frenzy now. "John!" It felt like seconds, how quickly everything was chucked away in the little Mitsubishi Lancer. The rain hammered onto the roof of the car and we felt safe. Before we knew it, we were on our way.
By the time my mother uttered her "aiyah!" it was too late. We were already too far from the beach. I remember this part more clearly than all the rest: Mother's despair as her hand reached out and touched the back of her head. Nothing. She did not even demand of us to search the car although we did, without asking. Father said that we could always get another one. My mother protested then kept silent. She did not say another word to me the rest of the day. Every stolen glance of mother touching the back of her head made me feel sick with guilt. It was like watching war movie scenes where a maimed soldier caressed a phantom limb that a stump replaced. By our next visit to Changi beach I could never enjoy the usual carefree frolick. My mission then was to find that short cashew tree where I must have placed the clip. Fruitless. By the time I accepted that I was never going to find it, my mind wove a blur of scenarios: perhaps another little boy has found it and made off to a magical place with it. Perhaps another woman found a new way of keeping her hair in place and made off with it. Or maybe the sea rose out during high-tide and swept against the tree, and made off with it.
Not too long ago I remember buying a hair-clip from the markets of Bangkok for mother. It struck a fair resemblance to the one that was lost. She looked at it, bewildered and declared after a while that she didn't have any use for it after all, saying look at her hair now: all short and not resting beyond her neck. She must have had a laugh and wondered what was going on in that head of mine. Had she forgotten all about it? I don't know. I know I haven't. I still wonder where she got the hair-clip from in the first place and what sentimental power it possessed to have caused her to mourn its loss. I still wonder sometimes if I might come across it one day in a thieves' market or on a sandy beach somewhere or maybe still resting on a twisted old cashew tree. I'd know exactly what I'd do. I'd take it down from the mysterious precipice, and steer it back to earth with my skillful hands and pilot it so that it would land safely on my mother's dressing table. I'd be spying mother from behind my pillow as she gasped in sweet surprise. She would chide herself for being so forgetful in the first place and pick it up. In her usual way she would brush her long black hair and weave the full length of it upwards, swiftly into a bun like she did every morning. Then she would fasten it all together with her favourite hair-clip. She'd turn around and in the usual motherly way, ask us to get up and get ready for kindergarten. Life would carry on from that like nothing ever happened.
My mother's hair-clip was a beautiful, ornately assembled sculpture of intricate beads carved out of tortoiseshell the colour of raw bacon. It was a mysterious cluster of separate, seemingly random pieces put together by an invisible wire and any young boy could stare at it for hours on end.
posted by Jef + Stef at 2:38 pm
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