Singing the praises of Kiwis

Ioverheard a friend tell another friend her hair looked great, and clocked her reaction, which was: ‘‘Oh no! My hair is a mess. I haven’t had it cut since lockdown, and the colour is so bad . . . It was meant to be ash blonde, but I bought some dye . . . my sister did it for me and I look like an old packet of Benson & Hedges smokes, right? Remember when B&H was in gold cartons? Yeah. That’s what my hair looks like, mate. God, don’t mention my hair.’’

She wound it up into a bun, stuck a pencil through it, and sighed. The complimenter made the foolish mistake of trying to backtrack, and then there was more self-deprecating hair talk and I walked away. Not an unusual scene, though. We are Kiwis and we are allergic to compliments. There should be a spray we can use to dull the necessity to move away from someone else’s affirmation as quickly as possible.

We are an odd bunch: We are ridiculously competitive, we try hard, we often tart ourselves up to look smashing. We go on diets, practise our crafts, get diplomas, climb mountains, win medals, and lose weight to look hot in a bikini, but woe betide anyone who tries to compliment us.

When giving a compliment, we just know there will be a knockback or a joke, and if there’s not, a certain little Kiwi voice inside our head says ‘‘Oh right. Well, they think quite a bit of themselves, don’t they?’’

When I moved to America, I was a fresh-as Kiwi. I had learned the art of the Kiwi rebuff, and was expecting that the artful compliment game would be played by all partie. What a shocker to find Americans actually take a compliment. The first time it happened, I was a little dumbfounded and confused. I told my roommate Misty (not a stripper, daughter of a San Franciscan hippy): ‘‘Misty I love your dress, you look gorgeous.’’

Her bewildering reply was, ‘‘thank you so much. I love it, too. Isn’t it just the best colour?’’

Yes, it was a stunning blue and suited her golden skin and glossy blonde hair perfectly. But what was with the ego? Where was the, ‘‘oh no! This old thing?’’.

‘In America . . . give someone a compliment, they say thank you and smile, and everyone is happy.

How dare she agree with me? This is not the way the game is played. No, when you tell me I look super chic in my new black pants and nice black shirt, I say ‘‘Yeah well I’m trying out my Johnny Cash look’’.

In America, and probably many other emotionally secure countries, the game is played quite differently. You give someone a compliment, they say thank you and smile, and everyone is happy. Not here, and I do love this warped idiosyncrasy of ours, we generally have three of four reactions to a compliment, or variations on a theme.

1. ‘‘Oh God no, I look terrible. I haven’t slept in a week.’’. This is the sister of, ‘‘Lost weight? No, I haven’t. I’ve put on weight!’’

2. ‘‘Oh, you charmer you. What are you after?’’ (brother of ‘‘OK, how much money do you want to borrow?’’)

3. ‘‘Sorry are you talking to me? You’re not talking to me right?’ 4. ‘‘Yeah thanks, I bought this red and white striped T-shirt so people could find where Wally is!’’ (Real reaction from me last week when someone complimented me on my rather fabulous red and white T-shirt from Kowtow).

5. ‘‘Oh no, I don’t look good at all. Now YOU look AMAZING! Have you been working out?’’

Yes, that last one is the quintessential classic Kiwi switcheroo, which always ends up in an awkward, but familiar, chorus of denials, then a speedy change of subject.

Let’s face it. We’re a bloody queer lot. We want to be noticed. We want to look our best, do our best, feel affirmed in our choices. But give us a compliment, and you force us into practised modesty, cynicism, or a poor comedy routine.