Make-over

I looked at myself at the mirror and my dejected reflection looked back at me. I noticed that my hairline has receded so that a plane could land on my forehead. Wrinkles started appearing on my forehead and crow’s feet has emerged beneathe my eyes. It dawned on me that I am getting older faster than I thought.

You see, I always have this delusion that I have this perpetually boyish charm. I remember when I was working as a personnel officer in a big company, nobody took me seriously because they thought I was too young. I was 25 then. They say I have boyish face and voice, and I do not exude credibility. I took that as a complement but I compensated it with my efficiency in my work. Maybe I dwelled in that delusion for quite a long time.

Or law school has a peculiar way of transforming a person physically.

“You know what? You need a make over.”

My friend Narcissus told me one time when we were planning to hunt for a job after the bar exam.

“You need a hair cut, a facial and shave.”

“What’s wrong with my look?” I asked.

I have always maintained a goatee. I wanted a scruffy-artsy look because law school reeked with the squeaky-clean formality. I loathe suits, wrinkle free lacks and sleek leather shoes.

“You look forty.”

I didn’t take it seriously until lately. Every girl I met or introduced to me called me kuya. Any romantic interest died instantly.

I never go to fancy parlors. Whenever I need a haircut I go to my ever reliable barber who only charges 50 bucks. I have only one hairstyle and he can cut my hair with his eyes closed. Neither do I use cosmetics and perfumes. I only use soaps, dash of powder to conceal the shine on my face, deodorants and cologne.

My friend on the other hand is a typical metrosexual. He regularly flexes his muscles in the gym, monitors his calories and protein intakes. He plans his ward robes, and use perfumes the name of which sounded like the sleazy tabloid (ah… yes I remember, Bulgari).He shops in Greenbelt or Glorietta and his shoes cost an entire month salary of an ordinary employee. He is not ashamed of applying a lip gloss publicly. No, he is not gay.


So I called him. I said I need a hair cut.

He took me to a parlor called Bench Fix in Greenhills and introduced me to his hair dresser Renee. I learned that hair cuts were on appointments. The parlor was surrounded by posters of Diether, Sam Milby and John Pratts in crazy hairstyles. The atmosphere was sharp and intimidating.

I was led to a chair. I was surrounded by Matronas in flaming orange hairs. When I took off my cap, Reneee touched my hair and assessed its condition. Then he alerted his assistants in a language that resembled the squeaks of dolphins and hiss of snakes. As if he is faced with a very challenging job and he needed backup.

My hair is wavy and thus naturally dry. It seemed to have a life of its own and it always appear in such a way that it always parted mid way like the Red Sea after Moses swung his staff. This, despite assiduous combing and application of hair gel.

The assistants came armed with different kinds of scissors as if i am a patient in the OR which badly needed an operation.

He asked me what kind of style I wanted. I told him I wanted a short, hip and one that could make me younger than my age.

In a heart beat he snipped and snapped my hair with great dexterity. For a moment, I'm was glued in my seat praying that my ears would not end up on the floor.

In a few minutes the assistant came with a blow dryer and powder. She dusted off the hairs on my face and shirt. Renee came back with something called petroleum wax. He dabbed a little sporadically on my hair, with his manicured fingers he raised the hairs at the back in such a way that they point upwards in one direction and he combed the front flat- style currently on the rounds which I abhor.Then he made some finishing touches.

"Look at you, you look 18!" He says it while cupping my face with his hands with great pizzazz that it looked fake.

I gave him a look I reserve only to those six legged creatures crawling in our bathroom before I squish them with my slippers.

I look like a gay boy under chemotherapy.

Now I am homicidal. I wanted to kill my friend. In the meantime I have to stay home, grow my hair back. When I go out, I have to wear a cap to hide the shame.