as soon as I had a spare fifteen bucks, I took myself to the barber. When I walked in, the Indian guy dropped his Brylcreem and shrieked, ‘Oh my god! What in the name of Vishnu happened to you?’
Even a professional was fooled into thinking there was something physically wrong because of the accidental brutality of my mother’s efforts.
Later a friend of Mum’s came over and saw my wobbly head.
‘Get yourself a pair of clippers,’ she advised Mum. ‘Use a number three setting all over, all the time, and you’ll be fine.’
Mum bought a pair of twenty-dollar Kmart specials. They lasted a few years. They used to jam up because they were cheap, and I had thick hair. Mum would yank them out— and I’d get clumps of bald spots. As it grew back it evolved into another look altogether. You know when you sleep on the one side for too long and the next day your hair decides to tell the world which side you prefer? Well my head looked like that permanently.
I was also starting to look a lot like my dad.
When times were good Mum and Dad used to take us to McDonald’s once every few months. Usually for a special occasion like Christmas, or Khoa winning a scholarship, or Dad’s horses coming in at the races. It signalled good times and, even today, when I bite into a Big Mac and get a hit of that ‘special sauce’, I get a dose of memories flooding back.
In 1993 Mum was working multiple jobs to feed three teenage kids. Rice is cheap, but combined with chicken thigh or drumsticks at $5 a kilogram, well, you’ve got a few days’ worth of meals. We hadn’t been to McDonald’s in years. I came home from school one day, lifted open the letterbox and discovered a flyer announcing ‘McDonald’s Yagoona is closing down.’ Because it was the first-ever Maccas to open in Australia, to commemorate its last day there was going to be a never-seen-before special. It read: ‘bring this flyer in and get a Big Mac for fifty cents.’
Fifty cents! Whoo-hoooo!!!!!
‘Limit four per voucher. One voucher per customer.’
No problem. I knocked on the door of my closest neighbours and asked them if I could have their Maccas flyer if they weren’t going to use it. I managed to get six vouchers altogether. That would be a whopping twenty-four Big Macs.
Mum, Grandma, Khoa, Tram and I packed into our car— we must have looked like a Vietnamese version of The Beverley Hillbillies . Five vouchers used up. We drove around the block, dropped off my grandma and picked up my auntie to take advantage of the sixth voucher. With twenty-four Big Macs in tow we headed home with guilty grins on our faces. Still today my brother and sister talk fondly of the Big Mac banquet we enjoyed; our enthusiasm rivalling those of our uncles when they talk of their great plum banquet during the war.
Then there was that day I scored on chips. I’m one of those guys who likes to read things. Anything. The paper, road signs, even the back of a packet of chips. So I knew that if you were ever unsatisfied with a chip there was a number you could call. Well one day I was halfway through a packet of potato crisps when I found a green chip, so I called them up.
‘Send the offending chip to us and we’ll pay for the postage,’ the woman on the phone told me, ‘and we’ll refund your money.’
The packet of chips was only a couple of bucks but I reasoned that the refund would at least be enough for me to buy another packet. I sent off the green chip straight away and didn’t really think about it too much. A week later, a humungous box of chips was delivered to my door. There must have been thirty packets inside. It felt like Christmas.
For a week I had the same chips as everybody else at school instead of the no frills variety that I used to eat really fast so I could quickly dispose of the black and white bag. I sauntered out at recess with my big packet of branded chips and ate them proudly in front of the other boys, offering them to friends like I
Even a professional was fooled into thinking there was something physically wrong because of the accidental brutality of my mother’s efforts.
Later a friend of Mum’s came over and saw my wobbly head.
‘Get yourself a pair of clippers,’ she advised Mum. ‘Use a number three setting all over, all the time, and you’ll be fine.’
Mum bought a pair of twenty-dollar Kmart specials. They lasted a few years. They used to jam up because they were cheap, and I had thick hair. Mum would yank them out— and I’d get clumps of bald spots. As it grew back it evolved into another look altogether. You know when you sleep on the one side for too long and the next day your hair decides to tell the world which side you prefer? Well my head looked like that permanently.
I was also starting to look a lot like my dad.
When times were good Mum and Dad used to take us to McDonald’s once every few months. Usually for a special occasion like Christmas, or Khoa winning a scholarship, or Dad’s horses coming in at the races. It signalled good times and, even today, when I bite into a Big Mac and get a hit of that ‘special sauce’, I get a dose of memories flooding back.
In 1993 Mum was working multiple jobs to feed three teenage kids. Rice is cheap, but combined with chicken thigh or drumsticks at $5 a kilogram, well, you’ve got a few days’ worth of meals. We hadn’t been to McDonald’s in years. I came home from school one day, lifted open the letterbox and discovered a flyer announcing ‘McDonald’s Yagoona is closing down.’ Because it was the first-ever Maccas to open in Australia, to commemorate its last day there was going to be a never-seen-before special. It read: ‘bring this flyer in and get a Big Mac for fifty cents.’
Fifty cents! Whoo-hoooo!!!!!
‘Limit four per voucher. One voucher per customer.’
No problem. I knocked on the door of my closest neighbours and asked them if I could have their Maccas flyer if they weren’t going to use it. I managed to get six vouchers altogether. That would be a whopping twenty-four Big Macs.
Mum, Grandma, Khoa, Tram and I packed into our car— we must have looked like a Vietnamese version of The Beverley Hillbillies . Five vouchers used up. We drove around the block, dropped off my grandma and picked up my auntie to take advantage of the sixth voucher. With twenty-four Big Macs in tow we headed home with guilty grins on our faces. Still today my brother and sister talk fondly of the Big Mac banquet we enjoyed; our enthusiasm rivalling those of our uncles when they talk of their great plum banquet during the war.
Then there was that day I scored on chips. I’m one of those guys who likes to read things. Anything. The paper, road signs, even the back of a packet of chips. So I knew that if you were ever unsatisfied with a chip there was a number you could call. Well one day I was halfway through a packet of potato crisps when I found a green chip, so I called them up.
‘Send the offending chip to us and we’ll pay for the postage,’ the woman on the phone told me, ‘and we’ll refund your money.’
The packet of chips was only a couple of bucks but I reasoned that the refund would at least be enough for me to buy another packet. I sent off the green chip straight away and didn’t really think about it too much. A week later, a humungous box of chips was delivered to my door. There must have been thirty packets inside. It felt like Christmas.
For a week I had the same chips as everybody else at school instead of the no frills variety that I used to eat really fast so I could quickly dispose of the black and white bag. I sauntered out at recess with my big packet of branded chips and ate them proudly in front of the other boys, offering them to friends like I
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