The incidental inconveniences of being short-sighted

Why genetic myopia is the reason behind my bad haircuts and other trivial struggles.

‘Is this how short you want me to cut it?’ asks my hairdresser, holding up a few strands of my hair and gesturing at the mirror in front of us. I squint at the vague blob of colours dancing before my eyes (an annoyingly chirpy Teletubbies jig, if you must know).

The bridge of my nose feels odd, a lack.

You see (‘haha but can YOU?’ yes let’s get all the puns out of the way shall we), I’ve been myopic since the age of nine; I’ve worn glasses since I can remember my fourth grade English teacher (Merlin ma’am- with the most perfect set of teeth, a smile that could traverse oceans, and was perhaps the first dark, brown skinned woman I allowed myself to think as ‘pretty’.)

But I digress. As I was saying, I’ve worn prescription glasses since a cruelly young age. I started off at -0.25, and over the past fifteen years, have slowly but surely made my way up to -7.0, a progression arc that my career can only be envious of.

The extent of my short-sightedness is best explained with my most tragic track record of many new years’ resolutions – mastering a winged eyeliner. Every January, I find myself uneasily close to the mirror, the tip of my nose almost touching it, painstakingly trying to draw on my eyelid. With one eye already closed - bringing the overall level of my ‘sightedness’ lower by many notches - it is practically impossible for me to see clearly, even if it at such close proximity. However, this tragedy is poetically self-fulfilling. While I continue to don poorly drawn lines on my eyelid, the added glaze provided by my glasses acts as a natural blurring tool.

Okay here's another more spring-y summer-y seemingly joyous example, since we’re clearly having fun with this: You know how you wake up on a nice sunny morning, look out the window, and catch yourself smiling? Or when you step out of a hot shower, engulfed in the warmth of a fresh towel, feeling like a new person? Or really when you just twist, bend, stretch, plank, yearning for that pleasing ‘pop’?

Well, here’s my version of these ‘simple pleasures’. My mornings start with a calculated aim at my bedside table, my hands flailing around till I find my glasses. I will never be able to ‘wake up to the view’ – any view. Just that of a plastic frame holding two pieces of glass together.

Showers are highly orchestrated dances. Five steps forward, glasses on the mantle, two steps backwards, turn right, step into the tub, two steps forward, reach for the showerhead, knock over the bodywash, reach for the vague blob of pink, (found my bodywash!) (oh, that’s my flatmate’s -- reach for the other bottle), found my bodywash! The post-shower steam poses further challenges. Your vision is foggy sans glasses, so you reach for them and wear them. Your vision is still foggy because of your steamed-up glasses.

However, there is an overall theme of knocking things over, which begs the question, am I just a clumsy person? Perhaps. Are all bespectacled people at least a little clumsy when left to their own devices (or, in this case, without)? Depends – on how long they’ve been poorly sighted, and how much practise they’ve had. My dad, for example, who also happens to be the source of my genetic deficiency (and verbal efficiency), is the most put together person – glasses or not. He can go on for hours – in familiar spaces like our home - without his glasses despite being so short-sighted, he cannot clearly see (let alone admire) a butterfly sitting on his shoulder.

The journey of realising such odd discomforts has been an innocent one. Since the age of nine, every passing year would involve a religious visit to the eye doctor. Which also meant that every year, I would acquire a new frame with my new set of thicker-than-before lenses. Not realising the tragedy of my short-sightedness, or the consequences of it, I revelled in this spectacle-shopping and lived a content, nonchalant school life.

I was built athletic, partook in sports, but never entirely excelled in them. The ten minutes before a 100-meter sprint is and should be dedicated to you calming your nerves. My ten minutes will always be spent second-guessing my choice of wearing or ­not wearing my glasses for the run. Will I stay on track without their aid? But if I wear them, will they wobble too much and hinder my speed?

Life has, for the longest time, been a constant will I-won’t I knock it over affair.

If there’s one thing you would think us bespectacled folks succeed at with ease, it would be reading. No movement, no drama, glasses put to optimum use, just words to be comprehended. But all those Reels about drawing yourself a hot bath and reading with a glass of wine on the side, or sprawling on a hammock and reading a murder mystery? Yeah, no. And by ‘no’ I don’t mean we can’t do it; there’s nothing we cannot do. We just can’t do it comfortably. These are distinct discomforts hidden in plain sight, neither too important nor too trivial, but are universal, lived experiences of the bespectacled population. These are discomforts that we cannot complain about, without sounding whiny, ungrateful or privileged (all of which I am, make no mistake- I just wrote 1000 words to cope with a bad haircut).

There remain, a few advantages, however. The best of all? You're always taken seriously (at least on first impression). Not by the hairdresser though, of course not. ‘Is this how short you want me to cut it?’ she asks again impatiently, raising an eyebrow. Squinting at the vague blob of colours floating in front of me, I give up (like I always do), nod (like I always do), and respond (like I always do), ‘yep, that’s exactly how I want it’. Ten minutes later, she would hold up yet another mirror, this one behind my head now, so that I can see the reflection of my hair on a mirror on another mirror. My eyes practically closed in premature defeat, I would raise an indifferent thumbs up and force a smile, to which she would proudly smirk at herself and get on with it, much like my semi-blind self getting on with life.

---

P.S. No ‘Janani, just get contact lenses’ comments are allowed. ‘Janani, shut up’ genre of quips are encouraged.

/Featured art by Julia Lillard./