"It's a hot day", I told myself for the umpteenth time. Yes, it's so hot that I simply can't think of anything else. And it twists my brain trying to understand that at the same time, people at other places are bracing against tornadoes and hurricanes of various names and category.

Of course, it's hard to imagine things when they don't directly concern (read: affect) you, which does not necessarily mean that one is unsympathetic. Such is the selfishness of the typical human race (unless you happen to work for Mercy or Greenpeace or CNN). As for me, at this particular point of time, at this particular co-ordinate of the earth that I happened to be on, all I can think about is that 'It's A Hot Day'.

On a hot day like this, more than 30 years ago, I turned into an adult. Or at least, that's what I thought it was then. It was not even about having those wet dreams or other come-of-age things such as being able to ride a bicycle, having smoked your first cigarette or the like. Nope, my own adulthood began in a hairdressing saloon.

Before you even think about spinning off some juicy rumours, I must hasten to add that my venture into adulthood was actually quite tame. You see, I was about five years old then, and my father used to bring me to this certain 'MGR Hairdressing Saloon' in downtown Teluk Anson (now Teluk Intan).

It's a routine and boring monthly affair, and the only thing that made me look forward to such 'outings' was the fact that the mamak barber would never fail to give me some Torrone sweets. Which made me feel good. But a tad boyish.

Now, I'd remember that on every visit, the barber would routinely place a plank on the armrests of the barber's chair. The purpose is for me to sit on that plank, because I was not tall enough to sit on the chair itself. It's no big deal actually, but I found myself starting to envy those boys (most of them already in primary school) who would sit elegantly on the chair proper and flip through magazines like Bujal or Utu san Pelajar . Me, it's always that faithful plank, and I found it increasingly tough to look elegant when you have to perch yourself on that makeshift plank.

Then one day I went in and as usual waited for the barber to put the plank in place. To my surprise, he didn't move one step. Instead, he beckoned me to straightaway sit on the chair. That was the day that I've been waiting for: I was finally considered as an adult.

And I sat through the whole haircut session smiling to myself, feeling wonderful and elated. I was an adult! And as if to further confirm this fact, instead of being given the usual sweet barley Torrone sweets, I was given the ah so adult Hacks. Adults nicknamed them aircondition, for reasons I'd only find out much, much later (but that's another story in itself).

Adult magazines...

But very soon the euphoria of being an adult was short lived, often by well-meaning people. I only had to pay half fares for bus trips. I was still to share cinema seats whenever the family goes out to see movies like 'Tiada Esok Bagimu' or 'Akhir Sebuah Impian'. And I get very stern stares if I so much as try to get into the front line during congregational prayers. And I can't enter some places without people asking "where's your father?".

It seems that the rest of the world thought that I was still a kid. So I sought my monthly solace at the only asylum I had, i.e. at the barber's shop. I felt at home there. Never mind the fact that the barber's chair was actually designed and inspired by the original electric chair used to execute death row convicts. There for all intents and purposes, I was duly regarded and treated like an adult. And, as time flew by, the barber even allowed me to view some errr adult magazines. To him it was pure marketing. To me it was pure adolescence.

Hacks and adult magazines. Not a very glamorous way to start adulthood, you'd say. I know to most other self-respecting boys, it's all about Marlboros and Salems (though in reality it probably was just a puff of grandma's Roughrider). To some, it's discotheques. Or even needles and condoms.

After a while it dawned on me that this thing called 'adulthood' could get sickeningly elusive. Just when you think you're old enough at Standard Six, you enter Form One and be regarded as little kids again. Just when you thought you were the Fifth Former Kings, you enter university and have to endure the tough orientation weeks and get bullied all over again.

That's when you realise that it's all actually a vicious endless cycle in itself. You're now an old son but still a young father. And later on you'd be an old father but still a young grandfather. You're young relative to this, but you'd be old relative to that. After a while you begin to believe that you are one of the few people in this world who actually understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

Getting old?

Tomorrow, exactly 38 years after I was born, I'd still be harbouring the same thoughts. Of being young and at the same time being inevitably old. Maybe it's just a feeling that I have. For example, I felt young when my wife buys me a pair of colourful Bermudas. Then I felt terribly old reading my eldest daughter's greeting card which says "thank you for being a good father", but in the same sentence she managed to make me feel relatively young again when she added "grandma must be proud to have a son like you"

Maybe it's just those things that you do. Or no longer do. I no longer read Bujal or Utusan Pelajar , but sometimes I still caught myself reading a few pages of Gila-Gila whilst my sons were having their haircut (no more adult magazines for me, perhaps now the barber thinks I'm too old for that).

I can still jog, can still outrun my daughter (who is a school sprinter) and can still play a few minutes of futsal (though now my body constantly tells me that I'm no longer young). So maybe I can't go and play skateboards or perform a breakdance now, but then again I never actually did (other than that occasional roller-skating tea dance at basement of Semua House).

Or maybe I shouldn't have read too much into it. After all, it's just my own self-consciousness. I can simply choose to be young or old, oblivious to the rest of the world. Once a year, during those Hari Raya balik kampung trips to Teluk Intan or Johor Bahru, I'd still play congkak and caklempong (talempong to some people). Or teach my kids how to play Batu Seremban, at the same time enjoying the game as well. I can play as many games I'd like, and nobody would even bat an eyelid.

Because what they see is just an old man playing an age-old game. What they don't see is that sparkle deep inside the old man's tired eyes. Rediscovering that long lost feeling of youth. Re-embracing the childhood that he once wanted to flee from, but is now fleeing from him.

For that fleeting moment, I was once again that child sitting on that plank. And even as I imagined that feeling, my heart momentarily beats faster, like a teenager. So surreal and brief, but reassuring nevertheless. I heaved a deep sigh, and like a child, absent-mindedly popped a sweet into my mouth.

No, it's not Hacks. It's Torrone once again; sweet, sweet Torrone

ZAIM AL-AMIN is an occasional columnist. He's with a think tank, and you may email him at zaimhq@gmail.com .