Friday, May 2, 2014


Pardon me while I ramble on about something trivial and make it sound important.

Last weekend, my hair lost the battle to the heat and I had it cut. 'Pixie' is what most people call it, but if we're being honest, I think anywhere between 'Pudgy Teenage Boy' or 'Soccer Mom with a Volvo' would be more appropriate.

When I went to the salon, my ever-reliable fabulous beki stylist Jun took one look at the peg I showed him and said, "galit ka ba?"

I laughed.

"Hindi nga, nagbreak ba kayo ng boyfriend mo?"

Naku beks, I don't even have a boyfriend to break up with and be all depressed over, I said in my head, explaining to him that I just really want to cut it all off, see what it feels like to not have strands tickling my nape for the first time in my conscious life.

As it turns out, it feels like nothing. As it turns out, a pixie cut is no fun, at least not for me.

Don't get me wrong, I am loving the comfort of not having a heavy ponytail to carry, or insane tangles to contend with on a daily basis. And I continue to be amazed at how even with the shampoo bottle's last dying spurt, I am still able to lather luxuriously.

But it's only been five days and already I miss pretending that I'm Titian's Venus Anadyomene every time I get out of the shower. (Now I like to pretend I'm Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, but who are we kidding, I'm no gamine). I miss having locks to chew on or twirl or braid absentmindedly when I'm bored, having a blanket to hide under when I'm feeling self-conscious or hair to flip on the rare occasion that I feel flirtatious.

And not that any occasion has called for it thus far, but I will definitely miss the feeling of fingers combing through my hair--whether deftly or gently or urgently--tugging at the tangles, making sense of the mess.

I will especially miss that particular moment when those persistent fingers break through a particularly stubborn knot, as if restoring some amount of goodness to the world. Whoever said there is nothing quite as pleasurable as someone's fingers running through one's hair was probably talking about that moment.

The good news for me is that unlike a lot of things, hair grows back-- and mine in particular grows relatively quickly. The bad new is, even then, it'll be a while before I have something to twirl in my fingers again.

In the meantime, I continue the search for people who are willing to accept my 8-inch ponytail--which I currently keep in a bag under my pillow, pretending sometimes that it is still a part of me even if it clearly isn't.

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