The aftermath.

A great big load of mess.

It started with some travelling, a bus trip down to Serangoon Gardens, which involved some tapping and waiting and collecting and walking. This then took me down to Vivo, and that's when the craziness begun. There was ironing and crimping, pulling and tugging, tying and pinning, and the brushing and dabbing and shaving and drawing.

After the fuss, it was a cab down to Capitol Towers where there was more waiting, waiting, drinking, talking and then I headed to Grand Copthorne. After loads of snapping and shouting, eating and applauding, and laughing and talking, I headed home for more tugging and wiping and what not, to get back to my original self.

And as I pumped my nineth pump of conditioner and massaged the eighth pump of shampoo into my scalp, there were recollection of the night's events running through of various insincere comments, forceful comments, the polite comments and the rare and unexpected you-look-like-a-slut comments.

But at the end of it all, I realised, I didn't really have the want to look fantabulous. Neither was I looking forward to the many compliments. I wasn't looking forward to the food either, or to finally find out who'll be crowned prom queen of king. And, only after $335 dollars spent, I realised, I didn't really want to go to Prom.

All I wanted was you, to have you wait at my living room as I fussed with my hair. Which, of course, I didn't get.