Chapel and perms

It has been a predictably tropical day. Heat and a reluctant breeze and the glory of brilliance at sunset. Right now, it is gold everywhere, as though a way of seeking forgiveness for a harsh twistingly hot day. I am beautiful, be tolerant. The way of life.

I spoke to several school friends today. We are bound by a memory as tenuous as one can imagine; at least three decades of life have separated many of us. Still, I never fail to comprehend this that binds us. We revert for most part, to speaking to each other as though we were sixteen again. The same banter. The same tone. And voila, we show ourselves to be the same persons we were. There's the agreeable one, the tough one, the irritating one, the bitchy one. A motley crew. Ah, but we love each other, in an unforgettable way. A completely irreplaceable way.

The occasion was a high tea. A fundraising event for the school which started as an intention to fund repairs to its tired facade, lately rendered irrelevant by the receipt of a large sum of money, amounting to RM 560,000 from the government. A gesture to make up to all mission schools for the long running neglect. A sort of discrimination that's outlived its origins actually; because there are no "real" mission schools anymore. They are pretty much nationalized. No pastors conduct prayers; no nuns or brothers sweep through the corridors anymore, instilling the stern discipline that's shaped many a child who have passed through their hallowed halls.

I remember the American pastor, Rev Paul West who came to conduct chapel classes with non Muslims. My eagerness to recite John 3:16 so I could win the coveted bookmark of the day. I remember raising my hand, being called and being handed the bookmark by the genial Rev West, his dark rimmed glasses perched on his aquiline nose; his blonde hair brushed carefully aside, his blue eyes lighting up at my earnest recitation. For God so loved the World...

His wife, Mrs West, was dark haired, cropped short and wavy enough to look suitably fashionable. We who had straight dark hair could never achieve her casually chic style unless we created voluminous waves with a perm. My mum agreed to pay for a perm for me once, and it was disastrous. I looked as old as the ladies who walked out of Ah Kwan's perm parlour, my mum's favourite haunt at that time when I must have been eleven or twelve years old. It took a while before my hair became long and straight again. At sixteen, I tried another longer perm and it still did not work. I think I was in my late twenties when I stopped perming my hair, trying to achieve that casually chic look Mrs West had, which fired my imagination so.