The darndest things!

Here are some of the top searches on the worldwide web that led people to my blog. They’re so strange I don’t even know what to say :p

1. bean bag sofa bed in karachi.

2. maid ruins clothes.

3. tofiq pasha email address.

4. bubble shading device.

5. pani puri cause IBS

6. neighbors cat shredded his carpet so he now lets cat roam neighborhood. cat is constantly on my patio. found him on table. he might have used it for litter box. owner angry when asked to keep cat off my patio. help!

7. hopeless sad

8. munira ka ghagra

9. are there any gorgeous women in heera mandi

10. garfield cooking lasagne

11. place to live without clothes in karachi

12. how do you say my body hasn’t trained in a long time in spanish

13. abdullah shah ghazi prostitutes

14. munira aunty  ——> ( :p )

15. lady home cook in karachi

16. garfield stolen lasagne

17. surefire way to trap male cat peeing on our deck

18. song got one hand in my pocket and the other holding up a peace sign

Yeh hum nahin, log kehtey hain. Great stuff people. Keep it coming :p

The Visit.

She stood outside the door, waiting, knowing they would recognize her customary thrice-rung bell. It struck her vaguely, that she was actually coming home. This used to be home once, fifteen years in the surreal past.

It was taking longer than usual, so she wondered if they were there, until she heard a muffled but distinctly exasperated voice from within.

‘Open the door, my hands aren’t clean!!’

A striding sound, accompanied by the thump of a walking stick, and the door was flung open. She still isn’t used to the long white beard that greets her now and ushers her in.

‘Come sit, she’s trying out a new recipe.’  Thump, stride, thump. He was in the middle of his daily ritual of getting some exercise by walking through all the rooms of the house, for half an hour. She tells her it actually takes him about an hour to do this, the walk is peppered with intervals of rest.

She was sitting at the table in her nightie, and it is 7:30 in the evening. There is a sedentary energy in the way she’s busy mixing dough and explaining excitedly how she’s been meaning to try out a recipe for savoury flat crisp ‘puris’ to go with the potato curry. Deja vu?

She wandered off into an empty room to change into a t-shirt and tie up her hair, and get down to the real purpose of her visit. Be the cleaning lady.

They had a maid for many many years, who came in every day to clean the house, and cook wonderful food before leaving in the afternoon, to return to her own home somewhere near the old harbour. She had seen two girls grow up in this house, get married…and leave. She didn’t speak much, just went about her work quietly, and the years went by and her bones grew weary and her heart grew weak. She could no longer climb onto a bus, get off, and walk the short distance to the house. It was time to retire, but they didn’t forget her, and sent a bit of money her way for a few years until they heard the news that she had passed, that her heart had peacefully stopped beating one day.

There had never been another maid in that house, and they decided there never would be, despite many protestations by the girls. How would they manage, this aging couple, without anyone to help with the housework? But there never had been a more stubborn set of Capricorns, and they dug in their heels and swore to protect their privacy till push came to shove.

A push might not be such a good idea, she thought, as she surveyed the surroundings, and thought of the day before when she had just dropped in for a long overdue visit to find a big broken frame in the hall, lying in the debris of broken glass. They looked on helplessly, as she got to work clearing up the mess, disposing of the jagged shards of glass and taking apart the frame.

‘God sent you to us today because he knew we were at a loss,’ she said, as her man sat down on a chair to help with the dismantling. She smiles and rolls her eyes, but is painfully aware they’re both over seventy, and it isn’t so easy to bend anymore. Every job has to be thought about twice, and either abandoned for a future date, or delegated to the Man Friday.

And when Man Friday is not around, like now, then the girls descend, like angels of mercy.

The broken frame led to vacuuming the whole room, emptying the contents of the vacuum cleaners innards, unblocking the obstruction that caused poor suction power, and a general assessment of what more needs to be cleaned. So here she was then, surveying the disrepair, feeling a bit overwhelmed but deciding to take it one thing at a time.

She opened a cabinet and saw the old cookers, once used prolifically for making delicious stews and curries, and the big pots that brought back memories of many a hearty biryani. All lying unused now, for who needs to cook large quantities anymore when there’s only two people left in the house?

She cleared the old dining table and dusted the sideboard, catching a glimpse of her, with her back to the doorway, sitting at the ancient desk….once a piece to be proud of, now a battered relic, decades of use under its folding hood, crammed with files and records and letters and certificates. An oil painting hung askew on the wall above the desk, something she had painted…when…? Thirty years? Forty years ago?

The house is full of them. It is full of the things that have made up the backdrop of such a huge chunk of their lives, and it is hard to see it all get old, and dusty, and worn-out. They kept it all together, didn’t they. They don’t believe in replacing anything…just keep fixing what you have, that’s the way to go.

So she’s here now… helping to do just that.

And she cleaned all the surfaces. and she helped warm up the food, the puris were fried, and they set the table with some old and some new crockery, and the three of them sat down for a delicious meal, an all-too-rare occasion nowadays.

Then she washed all the dishes and put them away, kissed the two goodbye…. and drove off, with a promise in her heart, into the world that she made for herself. A world at the corner of which she made a minor transgression by breaking a traffic signal in her haste, only to be let go by the most unlikely-looking candidate for a kindly cop with just a good-natured warning. No fine.

Good karma, you think?

A trip to the North (part-2)

I didn’t divulge too many details in my previous post about the Shigar Fort Residence, where we stayed for the three memorable days we spent in Shigar, because I was saving them for this piece that I’m setting out to write/showcase. The photos should speak for themselves as far as the guesthouse is concerned, but the picture wouldn’t be complete without a historical perspective. So here goes…

”The original Shigar Fort Palace was known as Fong-Khar, which in the local Balti language means, ‘Palace on the Rock’. Raised on a rocky pinnacle at the foot of the Karakoram Mountains, a part of the Himalaya, it was built in the early 17th century by Raja Hassan Khan, the 20th ruler of the Amacha Dynasty. It remained the home for 33 generations of the Amacha Dynasty until the latter day Rajas lost their wealth and grandeur and the Palace started to fall into disrepair.

pictures on a wall of restorative work in progress…

It was not until the mid 20th century that the Amacha family finally abandoned their ancient home, electing to build a modern palace in a more accessible position. In 1999, the reigning Raja of Shigar, Sahib Mohammad Ali Shah Saba, bequeathed the Fort to the people of Baltistan, while the Aga Khan Trust for Culture undertook the daunting task of restoring it. After five years of painstakingly researched traditional construction and embellishment, and at a cost of $1.4 million USD, the Fort was finally restored to its former glory; every detail of its architecture and decoration having been reconstructed as an exact copy of the original.

 

the main building

 

Thanks to the AKTC, the local community only stands to gain from the promotion of tourism. Using local labour and skills generates income within the people of Shigar and facilitates their training and education in the tourism industry.

But the best thing that could happen is that the reincarnated hotel has set an example for a novel form of tourism (in Pakistan at least) where the appreciation for a living culture has been beautifully juxtaposed with the preservation of an ancient heritage, since it doubles as both a museum AND a luxury hotel. Past meets present amid the creature comforts of a modern world.

 

the entrance area with the souvenir shop

 

 

the facade

 

 

The rock on which Fong Khar is based...it goes down 50 feet into the ground. Massive.

 

 

Huz and Shabbir, the Karachi-educated, Balti Sufi tour guide (on the right)

 

We were given a grand tour by a polite and friendly guide by the name of Shabbir. He was a local Balti, but we were surprised to learn that we had something in common with him as he had lived in Karachi for some time when he went to college there. His job here was to show us around the main heritage building and talk to us about history, religion, the architecture of Fong-Khar and the art and craft that embellished it. Huz was fascinated to learn that Shabbir was a practising Sufi, and that most of the local people upheld a Naqshbandi Sufic belief system.

 

the outdoor barbecue area, with seating under grapevines

 

 

inside the heritage building

 

 

the museum part of the heritage building

 

 

 

detail of some fine wood carving on a beam

 

 

a room fit for a Raja

 

 

a royal view...from the palace balcony.

 

 

Amu reported a significant drop in temperature after entering the massive trunk of this 400-yr old maple tree, one of the main features of the garden. there are 4 people standing inside!

 

 

the kids (and the grownups) had a BRILLIANT time picking cherries in the palace cherry orchard!

 

 

Poplars....they were everywhere!

 

 

clover shelves...

 

 

Amu and the...lilies..?..irises..? Anyways, they matched beautifully 🙂

 

 

the converted barn/stable...now a quaint restaurant

 

 

we explored every inch of the place, and as you can probably tell, we THRIVED in this idyll 🙂

 

 

...and welcomed the surprise evening drizzle and accompanying chill with the joy experienced only by those who have escaped the brutal summer of Karachi....:)

 

(All the pictures have been taken by me, the author of this blog)

My very own terrorists

I have some uninvited guests in my house, but I don’t mind them staying. They have adopted the bamboo trellis in my courtyard as their home and when you look at the picture you will see why.

See the holes in the ends of the bamboo? Perfect.

Apparently, they do not approve of me encroaching on their domain, and I have no intention of disputing their claim. I actually like seeing them buzzing around busily, hovering over the pretty yellow flowers, then zooming off to chase one another in the bright sunshine. They’re unique in their fat, juicy, black plumpness.

Someone once told me a story regarding bumblebees that involved ears being dived into. Needless to say, my first instinct is to clap my hands on both sides of my head and run.

But laundry has to be strung up to dry, and plants need to be watered and tended to, so I try my best to act like I’m not scared. My nonchalance doesn’t fool them, however. They zone in on me like bombers and succeed in chasing me off, tail between my legs, ears firmly sealed (much like the effect created by bats in an earlier post)

I think they just occasionally like to have some fun with me. Usually they’re too busy flying in and out of their holes in a non-aggressive way. I quite like their company when they’re in that mood. They make things more lively 🙂

And I’m hoping they’ll have a good influence on my tomatoes (the ones that stubbornly resist fruiting 😛 )

That woman

When one lives in an apartment building, one comes across a weird mix of the human species and my building is certainly no exception. In an earlier post I mentioned some of the different types of neighbours that co-inhabit my building. One of them is a woman I shall refer to just as ‘the woman’, and in this post I am going to explore the different ways that I CAN’T STAND her.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m as friendly and affable as the next Sagittarian, a trait that the woman and I strangely have in common. Then why is it that the sight of her just makes my heart beat faster in a not-so-pleasant way? Methinks it’s the ol fight-or-flight hormone kicking in…

She is in her late twenties, and she is pretty, in a petite pointy way. She has an easy laugh, and bursts out laughing quite frequently during conversations. Every time I used to see her (in the early days before I officially declared hating her guts) I found myself envying her figure, her elegance and the fact that she always looked so well-groomed. She never seemed to have a bad hair day, or to repeat an outfit. Her eyebrows were always perfectly shaped, and her makeup always impeccable. I inwardly groaned every time I ran into her. It’s a girl thing I suppose, but I always found myself failing miserably in a mental comparison between herself and I.

Enough reason to hate her? Read on.

We moved into this building before she did, and we could see that she put in a lot of effort into doing up her house. She seemed to be a perfectionist and wanted everything to be just so. Predisposed as Huz and I are to being friendly, we didn’t mind if the woman dropped in sometimes to say hello or chat about some problem regarding a mason or a carpenter or a plumber. Often, she would want to use the loo, or have a drink of water.

Am I the only one or does anyone else have a problem with strangers walking into their bedroom to use the adjoining bathroom? I may think that I don’t have issues with it, but come to think of it I do. I didn’t feel exactly comfortable with this violation of my privacy at all. For one, we’re pretty messy people. I hear people get judged by these kind of things. It didn’t help that the woman appraised EVERYthing in our house in a way that I felt was a tad nosy. We’re supposed to be a hospitable lot, but some of us have an acute sense of personal space. Point is, it made me uncomfortable.

It didn’t help when she would emerge from my room, venture into the sitting room, plonk herself onto a sofa and ask me to fetch her a glass of water. Of course I don’t mind fetching someone a glass of water, in fact I would go the extra mile and make her a cold glass of lemonade seeing as she had come in from the afternoon heat. Perhaps it was the way she would ask, perhaps it was my insecurity at being caught IN MY OWN HOUSE wearing my pajamas and a grubby t shirt, probably while I had been busy sweating in the kitchen cooking lunch, maybe because my hair was a tangled mess, but I felt a twinge of resentment. It also didn’t help to find Huz chatting agreeably with the woman in the living room, laughing at something she was saying, as I brought her her glass of whatever. I sat down diagonally across from both of them and put in my two-bit during the course of the conversation, and watched as she put down the sweating glass, ignoring the stack of coasters, right on the wood part of the wood and glass coffee table. I also realised, with a mounting sense of confusion, that I was being royally ignored! She had no interest in anything I had to say, and even though I have never witnessed my husband being flirted with, that in fact was my perception of what was happening in front of my very eyes! Was I being insecure? I think I mostly felt amused. But I didn’t quite enjoy the feeling of being invisible. And the only way I could communicate this to Huz was by rolling my eyes at him and pretending to barf when he glanced my way.

Once again, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for giving people the benefit of the doubt, and I wasn’t really miffed at the perceived flirting. Perhaps being more comfortable talking to men is another trait that the woman and I share. After all, women can be scary. Men in contrast are not quite as judgmental as we are.

But there have been many other instances that I have been forced to acknowledge the fact that there is something about this woman that gets under my skin. It’s like ‘There’s Something about Mary’ only with the opposite effect. Instead of being drawn to her, I actually feel the urge to put as much distance between us as I can, a sentiment not shared by the woman it seems.

Ever had the weird feeling that someone calls you a ‘friend’ just so that they could merrily proceed to abuse that friendship? It’s a very toxic feeling. She would often call or message with some request or other. Sometimes she would want to borrow our garden chairs for a party on her rooftop, or the barbecue grill, even before we’d had a chance to use it ourselves. Then there was the time when she was training to become a hair stylist and wanted to bring a friend over to blowdry her hair using our generator during a power cut. I was appalled at this request because I would never even think of imposing on a neighbours space like that. At one time, when most of Karachi had been without electricity for 72 hours during a massive breakdown, she requested to keep some of her things in our fridge so they wouldn’t spoil (we switched on a generator for a few hours every couple of hours) and dropped off her emergency light and her cell phone to charge for her. Often she’d drop in along with her kids to have a chat, on or around dinner time, and of course we would ask her to join us. And I don’t recall a single time being invited over for even a cup of tea. Not that I was dying to hang out with her anyway. Bleh.

Does it sound like reciprocity is important to me? Well, perhaps it is. It just seemed to me there was too much give and not enough take going on around here.

The thing with people like her is, you know you’re being used by them but there’s nothing much you can do about it. It’s like being in a bad movie where situations just aren’t in your control. Despite the fact that I found her increasingly annoying. I couldn’t bring myself to offend her, though I thought my body language and facial expressions should have effectively conveyed my reserve. She was either sublimely thick-skinned or just incapable of getting the message. But I still tried to overcome my misgivings and played the good neighbour, and even helped her out with putting up frames in her house, and continued to allow her to stash a huge sack of ice cubes in my tiny freezer for a couple of days when she was busy throwing parties and had limited space in her own fridge. And I gritted my teeth and bore it when she came over to discuss building affairs with Huz, unfailingly making me feel like a fifth wheel, and ALWAYS taking the call if her phone rang to have a long-ish chat with a friend, while Huz and I twiddled our thumbs.

Perhaps she sensed that I saw through her fakeness and recognised the artifice behind her syrupy sweet phone voice. I don’t know! I just couldn’t stand the way she would call and ask for Huz (to discuss important building issues) in this simpering, nauseatingly condescending tone of voice….like I was an imbecile child or something. Did I mention I am way older than her?

Anyway, we finally did end up having a showdown, as a culmination of a series of unfortunate events that occurred in our building. There was the matter of yet another troublesome neighbour (someone I fondly call ‘the witch’) the police were involved, Huz and I were being made into scapegoats over actions taken collectively by all the residents of the building, and at a time when we actually needed the woman’s support, she had the gall to back off. Later, she decided to change her mind, but it was too late by then. The damage had been done, and now even Huz began to have doubts (yayy!!)

Does this sound like a dramatic turn of events? Trust me, it was. Long story short, I was furious, and in no mood to be conciliatory. The woman’s husband had behaved like a jerk at the police station and I let her know this. She in turn sent an indignant message to all the residents of the building that I was a very rude person and instead of being grateful for her husband’s support I had the audacity to criticise him. That for me was the final straw because, obviously, now I ended up looking like the bad guy when in fact SHE was the bad guy all along!

I privately swore never to have anything to do with her ever again, after sending her a politely worded, perfunctorily apologetic email.

So you can imagine my astonishment when a few months after that uneasy truce, the woman was having problems with her internet,had a dinner party at her house in the evening, yet was so worried that her crops would die on Farmville that she absolutely HAD to come use my computer to harvest them.

If ever there was a jaw-drop moment, this was it. I think I felt so numb with shock that I couldn’t respond appropriately.  So I let her come over, and I allowed her to play her Farmville.

What has been the point of this whole rant, you ask? So I have an insufferable neighbour who gets my hackles up every time I see her. Big deal.

I guess it just makes me wonder if it was just me, or if most sane people would react to her the way I did.

(Oh please tell me it isn’t just me!)

Mirchi lagi!!

Isn’t it beautiful? My first green chilli, in all it’s fiery glory…sigh…

Just look at the pretty white flower it sprouted from. Still can’t believe I finally managed to grow something apart from spinach and coriander. Those were just leaves, but this? This is a product! I’m so utterly delighted!

What should I do with it? I don’t have the heart to eat it. Not yet anyway. Wondering how long I can let it hang there and continue to delight me before it must be plucked, and chopped, and sprinkled into my curry which will end up in my tummy, after which it will probably cause mild havoc with my intestinal lining.

When my aunt found out about my intention (random at first but perked itself into an interest) to grow veggies, she was delighted with me but gave me a dire warning. Do NOT grow chillis, she said. It is BAD luck.

It’ll disrupt my life and cause strife in the house and arguments amongst the family every day!

Obviously, once I was told not to grow it, I just HAD to then proceed to do the exact opposite. Happily, we aren’t fighting any more than usual (knock on wood).

I’ll be careful not to step on the leaves though, and in case someone falls sick, I’ll take a fistful of chillies and burn them and for best effect, throw the ashes over my shoulder. That should take care of all the negative vibes! 😀

Flooded!

You’d think I’d have more serious things on my mind than what to do with my hair. As if Pakistan isn’t going through a worse disaster than the 2005 tsunami and the Kashmir and Haiti earthquakes all put together. As if millions of people haven’t been displaced, rendered homeless, and left to the mercy of nature….and the government.

Muzaffargarh

The thing is, we’re staggered by the scale of this new devastation, now that the truth has hit home, and we’re at a loss and feeling puny. Disbelief has been replaced by despair, a feeling acutely compounded by the mis-actions of our president. Much has been said about his jaunt abroad, Cheshire cat grin in place. I for one, am dumbfounded by his speeches and his behaviour. His bereavement over Benazir has always seemed disingenuous, and so now does his concern for the well-being of his countrymen. He is a liar and a joker. Perhaps a clever joker. After all, he has amassed wealth that has not even been assessed. It infuriates me that he owns a chateau in Normandy. He should be made to sell it, and all his other homes, and use the money to help the people of his country.

As if that’ll happen.

Anyways, there seem to be a lot of organisations working towards getting relief supplies across to the flood affectees. Huz and I donated some money to my neighbour, who was collecting along with a bunch of friends, though I felt it wasn’t enough, we definitely need to do more, and surely enough, more independent groups are presenting themselves as trustworthy avenues for getting help across directly to the affected. The trouble is, it is the month of Ramazan, when communal dues and zakat must be given, not to mention help those of the poor in direct connection to us….like my maid Zahooran. So there’s only so much that can go around. Rising inflation has hit us all, but especially the poor, who struggle to make ends meet as it is, and I know Zahooran waits all year for this time when she can count on me being more generous than usual.

But after reading the papers today, another horrifying scenario is rearing its head. Famine.

They’re saying prices of fresh produce are going to go through the roof, as supply starts dwindling. And of course it will…..huge swathes of standing crops and farmland have been inundated.

Zahooran tells me worriedly, that even after the water recedes, the land will be waterlogged and rendered useless for a long time. It will be uncultivable and she knows this because her family back home does ‘khaiti bari’ in Riyasat Bahawalpur. And I cannot even begin to comprehend how the farmers and their families are going to deal with something like this, let alone us city people who depend on the rural people to provide us with what they grow. What the f*** are we going to do??

For now I intend to gather together another carton of rations to donate to the flood relief effort organised by KGS middle school. It seems some of the staff is going to go along with the donated goods in a big truck and distribute the food and medicines themselves, which is just great. But at the end of the day, I know I’ll be sleeping in a dry comfy bed, and my heart goes out to those millions of people for whom even the basics of human living are now an unimaginable luxury…

If prayers would work I’d pray, but I think what is called for now is extreme generosity. To hell with donor fatigue. We can’t just sit around and feel horrified and helpless. We have to help as much as we can! And we have to keep helping relentlessly.

the displaced.

Might as well curl up and dye…

If there is anything that defines me, it’s angst. I think I was pretty much born an existentialist, if indeed an existentialist is someone who is a great deal afraid and anxious. I come to this conclusion because I now realise that I am a worry wart in denial, and that it is time to embrace that knowledge.

According to existential philosophy, angst is the dread caused by man’s awareness that his future is not determined but must be freely chosen. Can there be anything scarier than that? My earliest memories of angst-filled feelings include:

1. The fear of lighting matches and stoves. This is because I observed my mom turning on the gas and lighting a match. The resultant mild explosion with which the stove lit up did not faze my mom in the least, but I was struck with horror as I contemplated the consequences of doing this myself, and I worried about growing up and having to do these kinds of things too.

2. Watching my eldest sister going to college all by herself and travelling by bus and crossing roads and stuff. Oh the anxiety at ever having to cross a road and go to college! It was enough to make me never want to grow up.

3. Getting married. Would I ever find a man who was as lovely as my dad? I didn’t think so, and it made me as anxious as the female equivalent of Oedipus.

4. Observation (movies) and ill-informed discussions with the peer group revealed a whole bunch of facts about the birds and the bees, which opened up a whole new can of worms. The biggest question was ‘how’?? And the answers delighted and shocked and horrified all at the same time.

5. Giving birth, after watching melodramatic Indian movies that depicted women screaming and crying for mercy while in the throes of labour. How was I to wilfully put myself through that kind of inhuman pain and indignity?

No one could have guessed what a worried little child was. I always appeared happy-go-lucky. But I’m 37 years old now and still muddling my way through more confusion and angst. It never ends until it all ends doesn’t it. I did my worrying about death and lying in a grave and ceasing to exist altogether and am halfway over that now. Wrinkles, and getting fat and grey hair are the new death.

The first strand of white hair in the front of my head caught me by surprise. It was very noticeable in my shock of black hair, a fact that was pointed out to me repeatedly (as if I wasn’t all too aware of it already….silly people). Slowly and surely, the number of white strands started to multiply until it reached a point where I could no longer count them. My family puzzled over this, since I am the third in a line of four daughters, and my elder sisters did not have any gray in their hair AT ALL. Am I the runt of the litter? I joke and say that I think about stuff and have multitudinous subconscious worries, and this is why my hair is turning white, but it’s too true! This should be proof that I am not the blithe spirit everyone seems to think I am!

Maybe history is cruelly repeating itself, as my mother greyed the earliest in a family of eight siblings where she was the third daughter!

But apart from getting down to the bottom of the cause, I now had to worry about what to do with the rest of my life as far as my crowning glory was concerned and here were the options:

1. Should I be the cool arty type and go the Durriya Kazi way and wear lots of kajal in my eyes and don ethnic earrings to accompany a not-so-thick white braid?

2. Should I be funky and dye my hair indigo and crop it into a trendy bob to look post-modern?

3. Should I just let it be and age gracefully and stay myself without having to adopt an identity and make some kind of a statement?

Decisions, decisions. What path to choose? It isn’t easy to face the world when your hair betrays you. People’s eyes cannot help but flick upwards while conversing and I know they’re thinking what’s up with her hair? until they come right out and blurt it. ‘Why is your hair turning white?’, they ask simple-mindedly, as if there is a subversive reason. What do I tell them? That I am crushed by the angst of the living and my hair is beginning to reflect it? ‘Why don’t you dye it?’, say the fashionable lot for whom changing colours is not about hiding something but about novelty. Don’t they realise how vigilant you have to be to make sure the roots don’t show when the hair grows, and how frequently you need touch ups? It all reeks of unsustainability if you ask me.

‘Aap ke baal tou bilkul safed ho rahe hain’, says the girl who does my hair at a salon, as if I am struck by a terrible disease.

I stoically bear my cross and develop an attitude about my silvery streaks and people say I look stylish and glam…..but only if I make the effort and straighten it and style it and spend some time on it. If I don’t, I just look and feel like a hag. I know if I start using chemicals on my head I stand to lose not just lots of money but also lots of hair.

Life is so hard 😦