Let’s be honest, this song brings back some great memories. For one generation, it’s the real song. For my generation, the Sesame Street version. Regardless, it was an integral part of my childhood.
Last Sunday, however, I was a one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater.
Let me explain.
One-eyed: Those of you who know me already recognize me (and probably make fun of me mercilessly for) as having only one good eye. The other was made… special 🙂 … thanks to a car accident several years ago.
Flying: Last Sunday, I awoke at 3:30 a.m. Jakarta time to board a 6 a.m. flight home. Why would I schedule a flight at such a ridiculous time, you ask? I wouldn’t. However, there is a basic law of travel in Indonesia: things will never go how you plan them. Therefore, all trains, planes, and things that go are open to canceling, rescheduling, or showing up at whatever time they please. So, due to the airlines desire to move our flight time, we were some of the earliest inhabitants of the airport.
We boarded the plane, and I was sitting about half way back with my teacher friends on my left, a sweet, sleeping lady on my right (who severely overestimated my Bahasa capabilities prior to her nap and rattled off all kinds of things that I only half caught). Curling up to reverse my sleep deficit, I fell asleep quickly.
Unfortunately, my rest was not to be. A mother at the front of the plane decided that she and her two screaming toddlers should move to the seat directly behind mine, for reasons still unbeknownst to me. This said, I do not care what her reason was; I do not find it valid. The culture here is that one should not punish his or her children in public. Results of this unspoken rule: screaming children for the entire flight.
Purple: Escaping the alarm-like children, I went for a much needed, long put off hair cut. Because my hair is different from that of Asians, I was scared, knowing that my hair would be something that the stylist was not used to. Despite my initial reservations, I received a surprisingly decent hair cut. This gave me confidence. Which was a mistake.
I decided that my stylist must understand more about bule hair than I had originally given him credit for, and allowed him to dye my hair. Brown. He left the dye on my head for about an hour, during which I questioned the seemingly orangey color of the goo. “No, Miss, don’t worry! It is brown.” Trustingly (and because there was really no other option), I said okay and stayed quiet.
When he washed off the dye, my hair was, indeed, bright orange. This is not purple, you say. And you are correct. After informing me that this was not the color he wanted (duh) and that my hair is “not the same as Asian hair because it is… more… blonde” (thank you), the hair dresser (who I actually really like, he’s very sweet), recoated my hair with a new mixture. This time it looked off to me as well, but my questions were met with “No, no, no, it’s brown, Miss.”
My hair was washed, dried, and revealed to be purple. Or red. Different people call it different things.
All of this made me want to eat people. And be a monster.
There you have it. Steps to turning me into the star of a favorite childhood song.