My Parents Hate My Haircut

Over Thanksgiving, I got a rather drastic haircut. I went from the non-descript, medium length, standard woman-in-her-thirties hairdo that I had kept for the last four years to this:

(Needless to say, this is not me. This is singer Kina Grannis.)

And I LOVE my asymmetrical bob. The short length feels liberating. I can just just crawl out of bed, spray some product, and walk out the door. And the edginess reflects my personality better than the borderline soccer-mom thing I had going before.

My parents, however, have yet to get used to this look. They maintain a continuous commentary on it:

When I came home from the salon--
Dad: Did the stylist forget to cut the other side?

While I'm getting ready in the morning--
Mom: This haircut will make your neck hurt because you have to tilt your head to the side all the time. 

After I declared that I was drunk while we were in Mexico--
Dad: Was your stylist drunk too when she cut your hair?

While at immigration line at the San Francisco Airport, upon returning from Mexico.
Dad (gazing at the pretty Air Japan flight attendants): The hairstylists in Japan must be more skilled because all of those women's haircuts are even.

This morning--
Mom: I'm making a hair appointment for Saturday morning.
Dad: Are you taking your daughter with you?
Mom: Her haircuts cost $60. Mine cost $20.
Dad: If we pay another $60 do you think they'll cut the other half?
Mom: No need. I'll just cut her hair in her sleep.
Me (from the hallway): I'M UP! I'M UP! DON'T YOU DARE!


I am THIS close to getting a mohawk just to see what Mama and Papa Fung would say...

Revoking My Model Minority Card

Mama and Papa Fung have been looking after a brother and sister pair, ages 8 and 4, a few times a week. Perhaps because their parents once lived a cosmopolitan life that included living in Japan for a while, they want their kids to become immersed in different languages and cultures from an early age. They have sent the kids to Chinese school, and their previous nanny also spoke to them in Mandarin. As a result, the kids are remarkably fluent, and their accent is spot-on. My parents reinforce their education by speaking to them only in Mandarin and by teaching them some easy words to read and write.

My mother has been reflecting on why she hasn't been as successful in instructing her own children. She had to drag me kicking and screaming to Chinese school when when I was a kid, and quickly lost the struggle to maintain a Mandarin-speaking household the second I started preschool and jabbered in English. (It doesn't help that my father speaks Cantonese, so that was the dialect I was more exposed to growing up.) As a result, I speak Mandarin with the fluency required to order food at restaurant. My Cantonese is only good for petty gossip. And the little Chinese that I can read and write I retained from college, when I finally valued my mother tongue enough to attempt to learn. In sum, my Chinese language abilities are pathetic. My brother's are worse. 

So when Mama Fung told me about these kids she's babysitting, she could only lament: "Can you believe it? These two white kids speak Chinese! WHITE KIDS! What kind of mother am I?" 

My father, however, is a bit more forgiving of himself and of his children. In the time that he's spent with these kids, he has discovered that they have absolutely no musical knowledge. They don't know any songs, and have trouble singing notes on a scale. From the time my brother and I were able to make any verbal noises, we were singing. We sang Mandarin songs my mother taught us, Disney songs, songs we learned from preschool, Beatles songs, Motown songs, songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. Together with our cousins we could have been the Chinese American Von Trapp family. We also all learned musical instruments-- My brother and I both took piano and voice lessons. I played the flute in the school band; my brother played the trombone. There is not a single tone-deaf person in our family. 

Of course, this is just a testament to what constant reinforcement can do. My father, always one to believe in the power of genetics, says to me, "Come to think of it, you and your brother are smarter than these two white kids anyway." 

Who's the Pimp?

Once again, I'm spending a large chunk of my summer at Mama and Papa Fung's house. As is the case with too many American families lately, we're struggling with money matters. I'm glad that in spite of all our anxieties over finances, we can still maintain some sense of humor.

Case in point: Over breakfast a couple of days ago, my mom talked about the buzz over the rumors that China's most famous actress, Zhang Ziyi, accepted $1 million to sleep with Bo Xilai, the former Communist Party chairman. This is the conversation that ensued.

Me: One million dollars? Why would she need to do that? She's rich and famous on her own.

Mom: Well, people are saying that she's been having sex for money for a long time. That's how she built her career. 

Me: I don't think that's fair. It's assuming that no rich and famous woman could have made it without whoring herself. Besides, what would she have to gain by sleeping with this guy?

Dad: Well, you never know what the politburo controls. You never know what you have to do to get your movie released. Especially in China.

Me: Is the dude ugly? I mean, if she was gonna sleep with him for money, I hope he isn't ugly. 

Mom: He's not bad, actually.

Dad: And he's very well spoken. 

(pause)

Me: Shit, one million dollars for one night of work? And the dude's not ugly? I might consider doing it!

Dad: Hahaha... Wow, money is on the mind. 

Me: And it might not even be a full night's work! The dude might pass out after three minutes anyway. Give me two shots of tequila, three minutes, and I could pay off this house. 

Mom: Hey, what kind of girl talks like this? And you're a professor?

Me: I'm a professor who'll never have one million dollars!

Dad: Hahahaha! Mom, would you have sex with someone for one million dollars?

Mom: I'd do it for half that. 

Dad: Yeah, me too.

Mom: Who would pay YOU? 

END.