"You cannot do boring."

According to my hairstylist, I cannot do boring.

His salon is smack in the middle of the Central Business District where the suits rule the streets. I like to wander around Shenton Way in the middle of the day, have coffee and pretend to be a suit. V the hairstylist and I were standing outside his salon having a chat before tackling my terrible tresses.

The Daily Toe: Phwoar! Check out those suits. I wouldn’t mind going out with one of those.
V (gesticulates wildly): Huh? You gotta be shitting me!
The Daily Toe (whines): Whyyyyy?
V (extrapolates gently as if speaking to a 5 year old): This is Shenton Way. Those are bank people. I know you. You cannot do boring.

V knows me. Let me explain our hairstylist / client relationship. V started cutting my hair when I was 17. This was when the salon was at the now defunct Promenade. Hands up, those of you who are old enough to remember the Promenade. It was the shopping centre that was the height of fashion with chi-chi boutiques and hair salons like Passion and The Hair Shop. In the 90s, I went through the hairstyling gamut with V – layers, bobs, bangs, perms (a grave mistake) and that single blond streak that took two hours to achieve. I took a break from V in the late 90s and committed hairstyling adultery but that’s another story altogether.

For those of you who have a tight relationship with your hairstylist, you’d know about the little secrets exchanged when you’re seated on that plush black chair while you entrust your crowning glory into his / her hands.

Apparently, I don’t do boring. I do not profess to be the most interesting individual but I believe that I can carry out a decent conversation without the other party looking as if he / she is overdosing on Novocaine. Here are a few examples of boring:

BORING DATE
I (stupidly) agreed to meet an old friend whom I’ve not seen in 10 years for a quick drink. In those excruciating 90 minutes, I pondered over the works of Marx, thought about what I was going to have for breakfast and listed the prescriptive drugs (Novocaine included) that would numb my pain as he went on various monologues about his divorce and dogs. Bored to tears, I drummed on the table, flipped my phone, peeled the label from my bottle and glazed over.

When he finally asked me an open-ended question, he interrupted my story to talk about (Yes, you’ve guessed it ladies and gentlemen!) himself. I was talking about marathons and he very smugly said, “By the way, I completed a marathon. 10 km, you know!” He waited expectantly for me to shower him with praise. I rolled my eyes. A marathon is 42 km. A half marathon is 21 km. 10 km is not a marathon; it is a run in the park. He continued to bore me with his “training” regime and mental preparation. I ran.

I realise why I lost touch with him and why I am losing touch with him again – for good.

BORING PEOPLE IN GENERAL
I have problems with people asking me nebulous questions. E.g. When I am at the water-cooler, a particular person would ask me, “Drinking water, is it?” If I am not drinking water, what am I doing? I suffer fools.

When people try to hard to impress with their successful careers, double degrees and perfect relationships with utmost seriousness, I space out. It doesn’t matter how good-looking the person is. How long can a bicep entertain me?

I think at the end of the day, my trusty hairstylist is telling me that I need to be entertained. However, as The Klein objectively points out, we (us both) need to give boring people a chance. Then he fake yawns when water-cooler boy asks him what his shoes are made of.

The Daily Toe thinks.