(Part 1 of 2)
“I want a makeover,” I told my husband recently. I don’t know if this was triggered by the change of season, or it was now my season of change.
“Sure,” MrB said without hesitation. He had heard this from me a few times before and he always approved. I hardly followed through though. I know, I know, other ladies are probably going, Shop till you drop!
“First, change your hair. Get streaks,” he said. But that means I'd have to go to a real salon, not to my mother’s 79-year-old friend in Seattle who cuts my hair by donation. I am open to getting a salon haircut but I'm not sure about the streaks. Won't that be a little costly and will be gone in two months?
“What if I just get a wig?” I asked MrB recently while browsing a catalog. A wig might be a better idea.
“What if I just copy one of these styles,” I asked. “Like this curly one.” I pointed to a wig that was big and frizzy. I like a hairstyle that I can get away with even without combing.
“That requires a certain type of personality,” MrB replied. “It’s not you. You need to have a leonine personality with that kind of hair.”
I can growl. You should know that by now.
“You are too sweet and quiet...,” he quickly added. That’s how to criticize your wives.
Talking about haircuts, I remember one disastrous cut I had years ago, back when I only had two kids. My mother and I went to a supposedly good gay hair-cutter who had a shop in his house. In the Philippines, the best hair-cutters were openly gay. So I was confident he would do a decent job. I told him I wanted a perm with bangs.
After the curlers were removed several minutes later, I realized to my horror that the front curls were “overcooked” and the sides weren't great either. I didn't say anything but I was not pleased at all. I looked like a poodle, but I didn't want to say it in hopes that the curls would relax after a few showers. Besides, my mother seemed pleased. Of course she would still say, “Wow!” even if I ended up looking like a pit bull with lipstick on.
As we walked to the waiting shed to get a jeepney ride home, I noticed people giving me a second look. I wanted to bark. Arriving home, our maids just smiled or snickered. They were careful about giving any comments.
Not my husband. As soon as he saw me, he did not hide his shock. He was briefly at a loss for words—gracious words—then he said it like it was. He jokingly mentioned the word "poodle". That’s it. I’m going to Ricky Reyes tomorrow. Ricky Reyes was, and remains perhaps, one of the more popular and pricey (by my standards) salons in the city.
And so before 7 am the next day, my husband and I left the house together to avoid the crowd of commuters. We took the bus to Greenhills where the salon was located. He left me there and proceeded to his workplace, which was a short ride away. Sitting behind some tall plants, I waited till the salon opened.
The hairdresser who attended to me couldn’t hide his amusement. He cut my hair really short to remove the almost kinky tresses. In the end, I had the shortest haircut I ever had. I was not very pleased about it, but it was certainly better than looking like our canine friends.
Because this happened shortly after the movie Ghost became a hit, I joked that I wanted to look like Demi Moore, instead, I looked like the ghost.
I’ve had better haircuts since and a few so-so. Often, I just grew my hair straight and long.
This time around I think I'll try something different. In keeping with my makeover, I might get a new haircut before Christmas. It could be one that will go with the “sweet and quiet”, or one that's a bit more daring. Grrrowl!
Whatever, I need to do it before my next visit to Seattle. Or by donation it is.
Demure Demi-Moore-trying-hard. My hair has
improved by this time.
(To be continued)