I do not recall any guy ever asking for them to do it. Perhaps this pay-for-hair-ripping thing is related to the requirement that lady lawyers painfully clomp around downtown carrying fat briefcases while balancing on stilettos.
Threading may also somehow be linked to eyebrow tattooing, which seems to be something women do after they have paid a stranger to rip out their standard issue hair so they can be tattooed with expensively perfect hairs made of ink.
I have yet to work out what hair-extensions are or how they work, exactly. I thought about asking once, being of the chrome dome persuasion. But I was scared off by the 6-4 inch, 300-pound, transgender Pacific Island hairdresser in our mall’s main salon. NTTIAWWT.
I also do not understand how alleged parents can walk around my mall, right beside their teen-age daughters who are dressed in skin-tight stretchy butt pants with matching cleavage tops. It is my view, this is why God gave fathers baseball bats.
But we digress. I am supposed to be scattershooting about Chinese weddings — not teenage butt pants — so I shall do just that, with the fervent hope that the Singaporean Missus does not read this particular blog.
Our first question is simple. Why is it that every Chinese restaurant in the universe was designed by the same person who designed the inside of jet engines?
For someone like me who wears hearing aids, “hard” Chinese restaurant architecture amplifies the “normal” sound of 100 Chinese people enjoying a wedding dinner so that it sounds to me, almost, but not quite, as loud and enjoyable as sticking your head inside a jet engine filled with rocks.
And inside that jet engine, an Asian Jimi Hendrix impersonator is playing Pulple Haze at 10 billion decibels. (Yes I wrote ‘Pulple Haze’, and I really, really hope the Missus doesn’t read this).
In regards to DECIBELS, I must note how uplifted my heart was last week when I got a text from No. 1 Son saying he had found the missing remote control for my hearing aids! With this remote, I can change programs so that, if I am lucky, I can at times actually turn down the jet engines and turn up the voice of the Chinese person way across the table who is trying to talk to me about noodles and chicken innards.
Sadly, I must also note that No. 1 Son, who is now out of the Will, somehow lost the remote control somewhere between his car and his actual hearing-impaired father, which was not a whole lot of help.
I cannot work out why Chinese people, in general, are way skinnier than your average Okie Walmart shopper, even though — at least at weddings, and Chinese New Year, and family reunions, and most every weekend and weekday of the year — they spend at least 100% of their waking hours in Chinese restaurants.
Right this second, as I look down to where I presume my feet are, because I cannot actually see them anymore, I realize that I gained at least 900 pounds from the umpteen Chinese dinners and lunches and teas and impromptu get-togethers that made up the pre- and post-wedding ceremonies. Even though everyone was eating, I was the only one whose trousers were making the same kind of sounds a submarine hull makes as it descends to 20,000 leagues under the sea.
I will never understand why Chinese people scrunch up their faces, wave their hands and say, “noooo, toooooo sweeeeeeet” when you offer them a Western dessert, yet they dearly love wine that is so sweet it will give a Caucasion Type 2 diabetes and rot their teeth right out of their heads if they get within 100 feet of an open bottle. (And if that wine is not sweet enough to suit the Chinese palate, I have seen my sister-in-law happily add Coke, to which I say, “garf”).
Even though I have been married to the Singaporean Missus for nearly 30 years, I will never understand the concept of Ang Paos. You put money in those red envelopes and give them to couples getting married, who give Ang Paos to unmarried relatives, who give them back to their parents, who put them in the drawer to be recycled at the next festival or meal or wedding. I have no idea where the money actually goes. I have no proof, but I suspect it goes to the Missus.
Finally, I will never understand why, in the 10 million Chinese restaurants I have been at, on numerous continents, not a single one has ever offered me iced sun tea in a Mason jar that’s big enough to last through all nine courses. No, it’s always Chinese tea served in those little, bitty off-white teacups that are chipped and stained and contain just enough tea to help you down one course of sweet and sour animal innards.
Why is that?
(Note: I miss you, Blackie.)
(Note: I really and truly do enjoy Chinese weddings and dinners, but, please, either give me back my hearing aid remote control or just shoot me.)
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