I was born with thick, unruly hair. The type that would get constant interest from concernd friends and citizens alike. The former would always prod me into getting a relax, rebond, or hair spa. The latter sees me as a potential consumer for the aforementioned services and hair products. But I have remained unyielding, steadfast, and unwavered to my resolve into maintaining my hair as it is - long, neither straight nor curly, and full. Not because I want to make a statement but because honestly I don’t find it disturbing at all. While I would like to be considerate for onlookers who may find it unsettling (could it really be that bad?), I’d like everybody to just mind their own hair business. Certainly, my hair has created some near-sensational incidents, that have made me laughed and be laughed about. That, when I had it cut (in a renowned salon) and styled (accidentally)one day, I got an uproar.
I have always maintained my hair long, halfway my shoulder and hips. It had no style in my early years. Back in grades school up to high school, it was my cousin or my mother who would cut it. And whenever they would, they’d always remark that I got a thick hair – usually with an exasperated sound – which back then I woul take non-chalantly. (By the way, my mother and father have both curly locks, and I’m not adopted.)
I have to move to Manila to continue college. This time, I'd have my hair chopped by a hairdresser. Partly because of puberty (I was a late bloomer, and so I believed) and partly because of a tight budget (I have to get the most from my money), I became aware of haircutting and what transpires during this process. Because I’ve always maintained it long, I would go every 2 months or more, to a salon – sometimes in an expensive, sometimes in a cheap one, depending on budget. I would always give them the same instruction, cut one-inch off, put some layers – initially because I have no regard with hairstyles (I only want to maintain a presentable look- at least according to my perspective). But later on, because I don’t want to exhaust them (or I would be obliged by conscience to give an additional payment). Time and time again, gays and women alike (i don’t maintain a personal hairdresser in any salon) would comment on the same thing – my thick hair – along with the same exasperated sound that my cousin’s and mother’s used to give. The constant criticism has gone into my nerves that it came to a point, when, going to a salon became almost an ordeal. Me, cutting off some visits. Then came bargaining – I would decline a shower or mostly post-cut blow-drying. Then finally acceptance – I would affirm the comment while maintaining an air of impassivity (grabbing some magazines, and succumbing myself in reading about gossips of other people – I love to do this!)
One day, while window-shopping in a mall, I decided have it cut. Because I’m already inside an establishment, and mostly because I already have some money to spare (I’m now working) I decided to go to a renowned place, commanding some 200pHp/cut. Because this one is expensive, I decided not to pass on any pre or post cut services like the shower and blow-dry (besides I thought they would not dare complain, given that this is a recognized company). I was summoned by a young gay which I figured my hairdresser. This time, (believe it or not) aside from indifference to the current trends, I wanted something that is more or less wash and wear (I have a busy schedule, and I could care less with the way I look – I already got a boyfriend). Given that my hair is long and thick, I thought it was music to the ears of the one who will blow-dry it (who turned out to be the same hairdresser). And so taking my hair with one grip, he chopped it just above the shoulders. Gave it layers. Then dried it out. However to his surprise (and for a split second, mine, too) the style didn’t turn out to be one that he expected. I looked like a lion (with a shorter mane than a regular one)!!! I tried to imagine what it would have looked like had it not been of the fullness of my hair. I felt poor for the guy ...or gay. And so he chopped here and there several times. Until finally, I told him that I’m okay with the hair. Even faking satisfaction with a smile..or grin (though I still looked like a lion, now with very short mane). I even gave him a big tip (bigger than I used to give), for his effort, but more, to regain his confidence. Then I headed straight to a store to buy a headband (which is the only thing that would tame the mess). And by a struck of luck, the overall look turned out to be one of my best hairstyles ever! I got complimented by the security guard of the hospital (who mistook me for a student), my coresidents (one even confused the change to my black headband, perfectly blending and disappearing in the darkness of my hair - how could he see it?), the staff (who thought of me as a new resident) up to the canteen personnel (whom I barely knew, mistaking me also for a younger staff).
Before, I got no idea how the hair could be one’s crowning glory. I thought, it’s just an outgrowth of the head, why give it such importance? Now, I know better. But what happened, still didn’t change my resolve. In fact, I’m letting it grow back to the length that it used to be (since, I’m having headaches from the constant use of the headband, too). Sooner or later, I will have the same, long, and unruly mane. But what the heck, one imperfection couldn’t hurt that much, could it?
By the way, I may fail to maintain my anonymity, because my friends know me for my hair, they had fun with these stories. Unless of course, Simba has learned to write.
I have always maintained my hair long, halfway my shoulder and hips. It had no style in my early years. Back in grades school up to high school, it was my cousin or my mother who would cut it. And whenever they would, they’d always remark that I got a thick hair – usually with an exasperated sound – which back then I woul take non-chalantly. (By the way, my mother and father have both curly locks, and I’m not adopted.)
I have to move to Manila to continue college. This time, I'd have my hair chopped by a hairdresser. Partly because of puberty (I was a late bloomer, and so I believed) and partly because of a tight budget (I have to get the most from my money), I became aware of haircutting and what transpires during this process. Because I’ve always maintained it long, I would go every 2 months or more, to a salon – sometimes in an expensive, sometimes in a cheap one, depending on budget. I would always give them the same instruction, cut one-inch off, put some layers – initially because I have no regard with hairstyles (I only want to maintain a presentable look- at least according to my perspective). But later on, because I don’t want to exhaust them (or I would be obliged by conscience to give an additional payment). Time and time again, gays and women alike (i don’t maintain a personal hairdresser in any salon) would comment on the same thing – my thick hair – along with the same exasperated sound that my cousin’s and mother’s used to give. The constant criticism has gone into my nerves that it came to a point, when, going to a salon became almost an ordeal. Me, cutting off some visits. Then came bargaining – I would decline a shower or mostly post-cut blow-drying. Then finally acceptance – I would affirm the comment while maintaining an air of impassivity (grabbing some magazines, and succumbing myself in reading about gossips of other people – I love to do this!)
One day, while window-shopping in a mall, I decided have it cut. Because I’m already inside an establishment, and mostly because I already have some money to spare (I’m now working) I decided to go to a renowned place, commanding some 200pHp/cut. Because this one is expensive, I decided not to pass on any pre or post cut services like the shower and blow-dry (besides I thought they would not dare complain, given that this is a recognized company). I was summoned by a young gay which I figured my hairdresser. This time, (believe it or not) aside from indifference to the current trends, I wanted something that is more or less wash and wear (I have a busy schedule, and I could care less with the way I look – I already got a boyfriend). Given that my hair is long and thick, I thought it was music to the ears of the one who will blow-dry it (who turned out to be the same hairdresser). And so taking my hair with one grip, he chopped it just above the shoulders. Gave it layers. Then dried it out. However to his surprise (and for a split second, mine, too) the style didn’t turn out to be one that he expected. I looked like a lion (with a shorter mane than a regular one)!!! I tried to imagine what it would have looked like had it not been of the fullness of my hair. I felt poor for the guy ...or gay. And so he chopped here and there several times. Until finally, I told him that I’m okay with the hair. Even faking satisfaction with a smile..or grin (though I still looked like a lion, now with very short mane). I even gave him a big tip (bigger than I used to give), for his effort, but more, to regain his confidence. Then I headed straight to a store to buy a headband (which is the only thing that would tame the mess). And by a struck of luck, the overall look turned out to be one of my best hairstyles ever! I got complimented by the security guard of the hospital (who mistook me for a student), my coresidents (one even confused the change to my black headband, perfectly blending and disappearing in the darkness of my hair - how could he see it?), the staff (who thought of me as a new resident) up to the canteen personnel (whom I barely knew, mistaking me also for a younger staff).
Before, I got no idea how the hair could be one’s crowning glory. I thought, it’s just an outgrowth of the head, why give it such importance? Now, I know better. But what happened, still didn’t change my resolve. In fact, I’m letting it grow back to the length that it used to be (since, I’m having headaches from the constant use of the headband, too). Sooner or later, I will have the same, long, and unruly mane. But what the heck, one imperfection couldn’t hurt that much, could it?
By the way, I may fail to maintain my anonymity, because my friends know me for my hair, they had fun with these stories. Unless of course, Simba has learned to write.
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