I fantasized about resembling Japanese pianist Aimi Kobayashi, face wreathed in ear-length hair, cinnamon strands interweaved with caramel thread. I imagined transforming into the spitting image of Korean actress Seo Ji-Hye, side-parted ebony hair cascading down the spine, swaying like prairie grass in a gentle breeze.
How thrilling it must be to strut my new hairdo in the asphalt runways of Manila, as the audience turn their heads, wondering who this woman could be. I might even hear a compliment or two.
“Ma’am, your appointment is next week, September 3,” said the receptionist.
Shit. Nice one, Frances.
“The good news is we can still accommodate you today, but we’ll have to assign you a junior hair stylist,” added the receptionist.
“Okay, no problem,” I replied.
My mom, who was with me, thought otherwise.
“Are you sure you could trust a junior hair stylist?” She asked.
“If the hairdo ends up not to your liking, you might not step foot outside the house.”
“Whatever mom. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”
Joan, my hair stylist, pulled out a hair color chart, selected three brown samples, and juxtaposed them beside my tresses.
“Hair dye causes brain cancer. Plus, your hair will turn into a parched desert and years later, into ghastly white bristles,” my mother said as she hovered over us.
“Here we go again,” I muttered to myself.
Although I disagreed with my mom, she had a point — was looking beautiful at the expense of my health worth it? Being in the prime of my youth, I have so much to look forward to with my life, and lying on a hospital bed with an IV fluid injected into my veins was the least of it.
“I’ll just get a haircut, thank you,” I told Joan.
And Joan scurried off to work her magic.
Black tufts of hair
remnants
of a Frances
that once was
s
c
a
t
t
e
r
e
d
on
the
white-tiled
floor
I was the heiress of my mom’s locks, undulating like the waves of the sea, tousled at the ends, yet each strand was in its rightful place. To cut off a family heirloom was blasphemy. But his words had a pull on me — after all, he’s brought me through my trauma to bring the Frances I am today.
And then he left me with six key phrases I would bring with me as takeaways from therapy.
I was the heiress of my mom’s locks, undulating like the waves of the sea, tousled at the ends, yet each strand was in its rightful place. To cut off a family heirloom was blasphemy. But his words had a pull on me — after all, he’s brought me through my trauma to bring the Frances I am today.
And then he left me with six key phrases I would bring with me as takeaways from therapy.
The sun hid behind a smoky blanket of clouds when I emerged from the salon like a fashion model. A faint smile stretched across my face as a breeze played with my shoulder-length hair, its top layers trimmed shorter than those beneath it. Head held by an invisible thread, shoulders kept slightly back, eyes gazing at the road ahead, I began my catwalk, placing one foot in front of the other in long strides. Skyscrapers stared at me from above, scrutinizing my every move. I didn’t mind; I even bade one of them a hello, but they never reciprocated. All I saw in the glass-coated surfaces was my reflection.
I gaped at reality. My hairdo, though shorter, didn’t look any different from before.
The words of my therapist echoed in my mind.
If I gave in to my mom’s wishes, if my hair stayed the same, then one thing was certain — I failed.
Jaja, a senior hair stylist, ushered me to a hydraulic chair as she brought out a hair color chart from the trolley. Together, we flipped through the pages and selected a milk chocolate-colored hair sample called Safari 11, its amber undertones glistened under the fluorescent glow of the lights. A black nylon cape embraced my shoulders, followed by a crescent-shaped comb that sectioned my hair into four parts, each fastened by metal clasps resembling the beak of an ibis.
Jaja began her sorcery. She emptied a bottle of dye and hair developer into a plastic bowl — her miniature cauldron — then whisked the ghost-white paste with a fork. Using a wide-toothed comb, she dragged the paste from the roots down to the ends of my hair, which she later cocooned inside a translucent shower cap. She set the timer to 30 minutes and asked me to wait.
If my hair were a caterpillar, then I couldn’t wait to see a butterfly emerge from the chrysalis.
A breeze flirted with my milk chocolate-colored hair, its amber undertones glittered under the warm afternoon sun. Head held by an invisible thread, shoulders kept slightly back, eyes gazing at the road ahead, I began my catwalk, placing one foot in front of the other in long strides.
Skyscrapers stared at me from above, scrutinizing my every move. I didn’t mind; I even bade one of them a hello, but they never reciprocated. All I saw on the glass-coated surfaces was my reflection.
“I’m proud of you, Frances,” I said to my reflection.
Her birthday was coming up in 11 days, so all I had to do was buy her a gift...
...and give it to her the minute I got home at 6 p.m. before she could say anything about my hair.
To make it more compelling, I could tell her that the gift was from both my younger sister and me.
That should be enough to divert her attention away from my dyed hair.
After all, she always wanted me to become a devoted daughter, like my cousin Sherra...
...the type who serves as a role model to her siblings, the type who is the embodiment of filial piety.
“Hello?”
“Where do I pick you up?” answered my mom. Rock-like raindrops pounded in the background as she spoke.
“I thought my younger sister was picking me up?”
“She is, and so am I, so tell me where on earth are you,” she replied. “We can’t drive around town for long, especially in this godforsaken weather. We need to get home ASAP.”
“Just pick me up at Central Square, outside Zara.”
“Alright. Bye.”
This wasn’t part of the plan.
“You know what mom? I didn’t come to Bonifacio Global City to spend time with my friends. I came here to shop for your birthday gift,” I began.
“Initially, I wanted to buy you an outfit from Zara, complete with a pair of trousers, a blazer, and a handbag. I even wanted my sister to tag along too,” I continued, this time with more confidence. “But no. You came along and picked me up early, so I couldn’t finish shopping. In the end, I only bought you a blouse. Here it is.” I handed her the Manila shopping bag.
Finally, I said, “Advance happy birthday. I hope you’ll like the gift.”
Instead, a smile crept across her face.
“Thank you,” she said.
Then I delivered the last line. “Oh, and by the way, mom, I dyed my hair today.”
Mom gazed intently at my face, searching for the slightest imperfection.
“Not bad. If you really wanted to dye your hair, you should’ve done that on the same day you got your haircut,” my mom said.
My therapist thought my hair was drab. But my hair is not fixed. Just because he thought so doesn’t mean it would stay the same forever. Therefore, it was unfair to prejudge me as somebody inadequate, because I could be flexible, only if I allowed myself to change.
Change required action, which was why I got a haircut. In hindsight, the challenge didn’t reside in the trimming or dyeing of my hair. It resided in defying my mom and changing plans at the last minute. There was no guarantee the new hairdo would suit me nor would the gift appease my mom. Regardless, I had to try, and I did with flying colors. I looked fabulous in my new hairdo. Mom didn’t get angry. Most importantly, I took a risk and actualized my dream of overcoming myself in the process.
The sheet of paper wasn’t the summary of what my therapist wanted to impart. It was the haircut.
