Category: Life

And when you thought my babies post was politically incorrect enough, here comes another one – my intolerance of foreigners in Singapore.

Yup, I’m going there.

Let’s set the scene properly first… place some boundaries, create a context.

I’m of mixed heritage – my father is Indian and my mother is Eurasian (which by Singaporean definition, means that she’s of European descent, in this instance, Portuguese). Ebony and Ivory made Cafe Au Lait. I am a third generation Singaporean and was educated in a convent school system. Which basically means my skirt was too short and all my friends were of different races and English is their first language. So, we all got along fine.

I like my foreigners like I like my shopping – sporadic and not in my neighbourhood. In recent times, however, there has been an influx of foreigners into Singapore. They have invaded and pervaded the heartlands (read: suburbs) and as a Singaporean, I can spot them from a mile away (usually from their very bad fashion) and I don’t like it. That’s right. I said it. I don’t like it.

When does tolerance get taken advantage of and when does intolerance become the norm?

Yes, yes, we all know that Singapore is an immigrant nation but that was eons ago and we’ve all learnt to play together. Socially binding a nation takes time, and time it took for us to reach to where we are. I am proud of my rigid nation, which disallows racial enclaves (due to race balloting for public housing) and bans the sale of chewing gum (goodbye to scraping gum off my shoe!). I believe in capital punishment (if you don’t like our laws, don’t come here with drugs lah!) and I strongly support not talking shit about my country, while you’re in it. If you don’t like Singapore, why stay here? Go home. Don’t stay here and whinge like a little white-man-burdened bitch about our strict laws, litigious government and boring country. If you write about the Singapore laws and then get sued for it – don’t you think you were a self-fufilling prophecy? Please go home to Britain and write about the flaws in your own country. There is no utopia and for as many flaws as you can point out in Singapore, I can do the same for your country. Shall we play that game?

Ok, I may have digressed a little.

My bias against foreigners, lacks bias. I don’t where you’re from  – just know your position. Play your position.

I lived for 3 years in Australia and I never enforced my “Asian-ness” on anyone. Instead, I worked amongst Australians and almost all of the friends that I made there were Australian. I did not clump up with other Singaporeans, while fervently slurping noodles. If you make the effort to move to another country, why the hell are you hanging out with the same damn people you get back home? Yet, this is happening here – the foreigners have set up exclusive communities here – only speak their own language and clique with their own people.

Excuse me, but you are in Singapore now… break that shit up.

Recognise that since you are physically in a different country, you should adjust your mental attitude and make an attempt to absorb that country’s culture. And this is across the board, whether you’re a rich white housewife living in Tanglin or a customer service specialist Pinoy living in Pasir Ris. Make an attempt. If you are going to be the exact same person and live the exact same life as you did in your mother country, go back! All this shows me is that you are a temporary guest with no real interest in my country. You are not willing to immerse yourself or change. You want a “better” life but you are not willing to sacrifice anything for it.

And for my dear government: take it easy on the influx, will you? I can barely fit on the train anymore.

So, I’m 30 years old now (dependent on who you ask) and I’ve had to admit to myself that I have no idea what I want to do with my life. And since I’m a completely negative person, I took this as the end of world and accepted to become one of those lost people I used to feel sorry before (damn you, karma).

The 5 week break I had taken before didn’t help and definitely neither did the last job I attempted to integrate into my life. My mind was a constant drone of “what the hell do I do now?” and “what do I want to do in the first place?”.

Society doesn’t help either. There were definitely more people that said things like, “Didn’t you just quit your other job?” “What’s your plans now?” and “You mean you quit your job without another… again?”. And I got all defensive mostly because I didn’t have the answers for them, much less myself. But there were a few people who lauded my decision – people who told me to enjoy my time and slowly figure out what would make me happiest the most.

And that’s the keyword. Happy.

I was not happy with the other work I was doing – not that it was bad work or poor office environments – it was me. I just wasn’t happy anymore and all that whinging, definitely wasn’t helping. It was the realisation that I don’t possess the power to change the working environment (working late, crazy colleagues, unreasonable clients) but I had the ultimate power to remove myself from it.

So, I thought about what would make me happy.

• Lots of money – comes at a cost that was making me miserable
• Good job title – my work should speak for itself
• Cycling to the beach in the mornings with Dolce
• Being able to nap in the afternoon
• Being able to choose the projects I want to work on
• Being able to choose the people I want to work with
• Creating a working environment that fits me

And there it was.

I was clearly willing to work for less money, in order to achieve my sanity. When did “happiness” become a dirty word? A word that you discard once you become an adult? How many people do you know, when asked how work is, respond with a resounding, “Great!”?

If you ask me what I want to do with my life right now, my answer is short. “I want to be happy”.

So, this means I am now freelancing (pimp: job enquiries to noelle@noellelynn.com) from the comfort of my bedroom, with my TV in front of me and Dolce, sleeping, beside me. I don’t know if I’ll get paid as much as I have been with my previous jobs – but hey, I don’t have kids to feed. And even now, society tries to grab me with its ensnaring fingers and guilty whispers to push me further. “Why not start a business?”. It’s as though people can’t believe you are actually happy with so little. I really don’t need to prove anything to anyone.

Because I am happy.

It has been recently raised to me that I might want to “look into” toning down my personality. When this kind consideration was communicated to me, I was so deep in shock that I did not bother clarifying this recommendation (does it really need any clarification?) and immediately went into a whirlwind of assumptions and general miffs.

A couple of weeks later of cursing and confusion, I have decided to pretend to be a rationale adult, and actually consider the weight and value of this point of view. Is there any truth in it?

Female members of my family (and this is already evident in my 4 year old niece) are raised to be outspoken, independent and dramatic. It’s encouraged and amuses when we’re growing up and looked upon with pride when we’re older. We’re considered strong women. But does being a strong woman mean that you have be talking all the time? Can strength also be measured by silence and resilience?

I am, without a doubt, talkative. I don’t think I know any person who’s met me for more than 10 minutes who can declare me, not chatty. When did this become a negative aspect of one’s character? Isn’t a chatty person infinitely more interesting than a quiet mouse? Or do we return to the adage of “empty vessels make the most noise”?

When does a person’s persona get mistaken for their personality?

I would like to believe that I speak intelligently most of the time (not counting that discussion on Toy Story last Monday), with clarity and confidence. I am not excessively chatty at the workplace (although people do need to communicate from time to time) but I have realised the problem may not be with the amount of chatter but rather with the fact that I offer an opinion, at all. Do you mean to say that pretty girls can think too? Surely ye jest!

Of course there may be differing opinions, but I’d like documented evidence, please.

My response to being asked to “tone down” my personality?

“I don’t think I can and I know that I don’t want to”.

So, I decided to quit my job and take a sabbatical.

This was, by no means, a small decision. I am unusually pragmatic regarding work/life decisions (evidence: 2.5 years as a flight attendant, 2.5 years in a job that gave me acid reflux) so deciding to embark on an empty, planless journey was slightly unsettling. The morning after, when my body automatically woke at 7:30am, I lay in bed and thought, “what the fuck have I done?”.

No plans for income. No ideas for what to do. No savings (no shit).

So, I decided to re-organise my closet. Sounds like a simple enough plan to distract me enough. Except, I decided to complicate it. (Really? Me?).

First, I ascertained the problem. Partial shoe collection crammed in together with bags of cl0thes all in one very tight space.

I then drew a blueprint. Yes. That’s what I did.

I then cleared out everything, trashed about 5 bags of clothes (all donated) and shoes and finally, re-arranged everything back (according to plan).

These were the shoes that were hiding in my closet (turned out to be barely half my full collection).

So, that was one day down.

The recuperation from doing this in one day, however, took another 3 days – so that’s about a week gone.

I then decided to try and be an athlete and incorporate swimming into my lifestyle.

It took me about 5 minutes to try and fit a swimming cap on for the first time and about one lap to realise I lack the aerobic and lung capacity to be a swimmer.

After two weeks of doing absolutely nothing, I panicked and took the first job that was offered to me (that’s a whole other story in itself). This left me with a total of 5 weeks of a “sabbatical”.

I let myself relax. I stopped myself from walking faster than anyone else. I napped a lot. At the end of the 5 weeks, I was completely miserable at the prospect of starting a new job and realised that 5 weeks was a faux-batical. It was nowhere near enough for me to explore what I really wanted to do as a career in life – do I still want to design? Do I still enjoy doing layout the way I did when I first started? Did I still want to lead a studio or maybe just work on my own? Did I even want to consider starting my own agency? Did I want to just say “to hell with everything” and work as a receptionist?

Once I opened the window for the questions, they flew in like a flock of crazy Hitchcock birds. They snapped at my conscience, my innermost desires and every decision I’d ever made.

And after a month of working with a new agency, I have decided to leave (once you start quitting jobs, you can’t stop). I have no idea what I am going to do, or what’s even scarier, is that I have no idea about what I want to do. It’s hard to admit to myself or anyone that at the alleged age of 30, I don’t know what I want to do with my life. But I do know that this time round, I’m going to actually use this break to my advantage.

Or at least, I intend to.

I have had the immense pleasure of watching the Chris Rock, HBO documentary, Good Hair. As a person with “bad hair”, it resonated deeply with me because I have hated my hair since I could hate anything. This post is going to be honest; there are going to be some hair-raising photos in this one. This is my THS (True Hair Story).

I have the Asian equivalent of nappy hair. It’s frizzy, too light and has no definition whatsoever. I could live with curly hair but I don’t have even that. As long as I can remember, I have seriously loathed my hair and had no idea what could be done with it. I tried everything – shaved it, John Frieda-ed it, had the Toni Braxton cap, spiral permed it, and of course, the home straightening.

I remember the first time I ever had my hair ironed. This was in 2002 and I was buying some time before meeting my then boyfriend. I stepped into a hair salon for a wash and the lady suggested ironing it for me. It was literally so beautiful, I remember crying after that (that’s right, I cry!) and even the hair stylist gushed over me. My boyfriend didn’t recognise me and even snapped these photos of me. Until today, I can still remember the feeling of being so utterly in love with my hair, which I’d always considered my sworn enemy.

And I got hooked. Soon after, I rebonded my hair and never looked back. Oh dear lord, the silky, smooth tresses that danced playfully in the breeze and framed my face and shoulders. The ease of wash-and-go saved me almost half an hour every morning and finally, a man could run his fingers through my hair without the fear of losing of a digit. I could wear it up, I could wear it down – I could finally have hair to match my moods and outfits.

But with any magical gift, there is a downside. In 2002, rebonding didn’t come cheap. You were looking at $300 per session, every 4-5 months, on your ass for about 4 hours each time. Good hair needs sacrifice! Since then, rebonding your hair (or in my case, freshening my roots) runs around $150 and for that, you get an army of hair minions blow-drying, washing, ironing and cream-applying. And for an additional $50, you can throw in a colour rinse. You then have to suffer for a couple of days with ridiculously flat hair but it fluffs up soon enough. It’s finally the accessory it should be.

And then, there’s the “in between hair” time. Normally, I give my head about 3 full months before I rebond the roots and of course, my hair is the one thing about me that grows at an alarmingly healthy rate. So, I have some rebonding down time on my hands and for that, a girl needs a trusty gHd straightener. My last straightener literally shortened out and had sparks flying out from it. I now use my straightener to curl the ends of my hair and give that fake/natural wave. Deathly straight hair is a specific look and not for everyday. Plus, if my hair was full-on straight, everyone’s gonna know it’s bullshit! I’m brown!

The in-between time is also dangerous when trying to date someone and water activities are involved. I will absolutely not go swimming because there’s no way I can explain straight hair going in, and half-and-half coming out. Having your hair rebonded is a commitment – once you start, you have to go all the way. Once the roots start showing, you have to touch that up.

The pressure to realise your hair as your crowning glory is crippling sometimes. I’m still the same person I was when I was 15 (well, essentially) but you can’t toss frizzy hair about while flirting as readily as you can with long, straight hair. With straight hair comes confidence – the self actualisation that this is the final thing you can do for yourself to ensure you are at your best looking.

I know everyone always jokes that women want the opposite of what they have – but I have never known any woman to wish for frizzy hair. They may wish for curly hair but nobody in their right mind, would ever wish for frizzy hair. I’m pretty sure it’s a birth defect.

I now watch my 4 year old niece, wish her hair was straight, like her Barbies (which are all white, by the way. I’m buying her a brown Barbie next). Everyone but her loves her curls and honestly, isn’t her opinion the most important? As much as I’d like to believe that the world should love and embrace you for who you are – it’s a ridiculously hypocritical belief considering I should be owning shares in M.A.C. by now. Having frizzy hair is a social stigma that I’ve acknowledged with the very act of straightening my own hair. By the look of where my niece is headed, it’s a social stigma that’s growing wild.

So, I now (painfully) bring to you – the plethora of hairstyles I’ve had over the years (none of them good) in order to counter this messy mop.