Hair

I’ve always been a short-haired girl.

That somehow comes with a lot of other qualities that rightly or wrongly I attribute to myself. No girl for instance has ever won the Ms. Universe pageant donning a bob cut. And so growing up, I came to regard myself as NOT a long-haired girl although certainly I had dreams of wearing a long gown and a tiara waving to a sea of gooey eyed admirers. I, unfortunately, was slightly allergic to my own hair so rashes and other very unpleasant things appeared on my ears, neck, scalp, and other places that my hair touched. So every so often, my mother, after giving me a warm bath with guava leaves, would drag me to Manong Junior’s tiny parlor in the town market to get a trim. Manong Junior was the first gay friend I loved because he was quiet, efficient and very fast.  He was my first and only stylist, one who was very patient with my bored and not to mention rude little head as it turned to stare at other waiting customers when it was supposed to not move.  His were the gentlest hands ever to hold a pair of scissors though and my parents and I liked him very much.    So over the years, I came to accept that I was never going to be a long-haired girl for the same reason that I never had any chance of being class secretary  (because that was for long-haired girls) and that I should find my own place in this world as a short-haired  girl.

And so my hair was short the first time my mother brought me to a new place called school. It was still short the first time my teachers said I could dance in center stage and play the angel in our annual reenactment of the birth of Christ. It was short the first time I reduced to tears a boy with my bare hands. Short still, the first time my heart skipped a beat and I learned the meaning of the word, “crush.”  It was also short the first time I took a jeepney all by myself to yet another new place called high school.   It was short the first time I realized that I was not the smartest person in the world (what a catastrophe!) and 13 was the highest place my best efforts could take me.  It was short the first time I figured that boys are biologically wired to be gooey eyed around girls, long-haired ones mostly. It was short the first time I felt a kind of smallness and ugliness I couldn’t explain.  It was also short the first time I said to myself, “F@ck it,” cut class and failed Algebra.  Like I said I’ve been keeping it short. So it was also short the first time I said “Hah!” in a most victorious tone because round and round the musical chairs of life, I managed to secure a coveted seat in a good university in a much bigger city, where I was to learn that some boys did like short-haired  girls after all.

But childhood rashes could be outgrown. The moment I realized I already could, I decided to wear my hair long.  This was following some very dark years characterized by a feeling of smallness that is too ugly to explain. Every time since then that I thought about donning a bob again, I’d get all fidgety and nervous and I’d end up just having my hair trimmed by a couple of inches.  When all else fails, I was at the very least a long-haired girl.

But then today I woke up and said to myself, “Today, I shall update my look.” I began by searching the net for various ways in which I could style my long hair. Photo after photo, it was like looking at the flicker account of Ruffa Guttierez. My curious mother wanted to know what was up with me and this sudden desire to get a haircut and so I told her something we which both knew to be true, “I’ve always been a short-haired girl.”

So off I went to a younger and louder version of Manong Junior (who also told me to stop looking around) and I said to him, “Please cut my hair.”

“And make it curly.” And now, we shall see.