I'm in bed. Conscious, albeit barely. The untypical darkness betrays a low-slung sky outside. Where birdsong would unhurriedly rouse me up, a steady drizzle pitter patters against the window today. It's day I-don't-know-what of the “circuit breaker”, day way-too-many of WFH. And I'm at the fag end of my patience. READ: Circuit Breaker Diaries: A week in the life of someone stuck at home with virtual yoga aunties My 14-month-old has just waddled in and clobbered me with a rogue pair of specs. The smell of coffee leaks into my room, as do the shrill cries of another child, presumably driven round the bend by HBL. At arm's length, WhatsApp hums. It's my barber. He's in a state of panic. The soft noose of the early circuit breaker has wound tight. He can't breathe, can't operate. Rent's due, too. READ: Circuit Breaker Diaries: Listening to the sounds of my quiet neighbourhood He tells me he's going to do house calls. How else was he going to earn his bread? Would I be interested? The endless weeks have turned my hair into something of a grievous bird's nest. Woah, woah, woah, hold up there, fella. I haven't seen my parents in what? Two, three… Read full this story
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Ode to my neighbourhood barber and all the ghosts of haircuts past have 305 words, post on www.channelnewsasia.com at May 9, 2020. This is cached page on Vietnam Dance. If you want remove this page, please contact us.