Black fabric was draped over my chest and shoulders.
Shoulders that are too narrow for my gigantic arms.
I scowl at my reflection and chastise myself silently at the total lack of will power I display whenever the McDonald's logo looms ahead. Unfortunately, it's on every corner of the metro.
My hair drips with water that smells of hair gel and baby powder. The locks that frame my face are as limp as the spaghetti noodles I over-boiled last Christmas.
I stare at the stack of magazines that one of the assistants placed before me, not wanting to read any of them after I counted five strands of hair peeking from in between their pages. Yes, I am obsessive-compulsive. I feel no shame in admitting it.
My eyes squint at the overhead light as my lips dry up with a powdery white moustache from the cold freon blast of the A/C above me.
Discomfort.
The assistant tells me that the stylist will be here any minute. I look at my watch, sigh a little bit too loudly and look down at my feet.
My self esteem has always prevented me from getting a professional pedicure. I cut my own toenails in the comfort and privacy of my room. My mother used to call my feet "luya" when I was a child. I forgive her. They really do look that way.
"Just a haircut," I tell the stylist politely.
I look around at the other clients. Most are nervously fidgeting, or trying to immerse themselves in the hairy magazines given to them.
Everyone is scared. Scared that a little bit of difference will reveal the ugliness that everyone so desperately tries to hide, albeit hopeful, that chances are, that difference will glorify their masks instead.
Everyone here looks around instead of straight ahead. Mirrors in these places tend to honestly reflect the flaws you don't see in mirrors at home. All others in this haven are witnesses. Anyone here can laugh from beneath disguised coughs or from within employees' lounges.
Does he know what he's doing? Does he know? Does he ever?
Pictures are pulled out. Descriptions are verbalized, repeatedly and vehemently, to remind the stylists of what nightmares look like.
But it all ends up the same anyway.
You leave with the same heavy heart, a whole lotta regret, and a godawful haircut.
Breakover
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6 comments:
oh gad. how terrible. a pained expression reflects back in the mirror each time i go to a parlor. don't you worry, i bet u still look good. =)
hindi ka naman nagpakulot eh! hehehe i'd love to see u in curls :)
tee-hee!
-stalkermode
*** but seriously. i get that impending sense of doom whenever i walk in to an unfamiliar salon. yipes. ***
astig! i find it so cool how you "see through" the most trivial things... like getting a haircut. :)
i hate having my hair cut, it gives me time to have a good long look at my fat face.
how interesting.
i like how you made even the most mundane thing as getting a haircut interesting with your choice of words. :)
i don't really like having a haircut, but i don't hate it as well. for me... a haircut is something i ought to do because my hair is already too long for me to take care for. or of. whatever.
I agree with the commentor up there.
Though, I'd say, don't demoralize yourself with how you look like. It's not as if the society should dictate whether you're looking good or what.
Feel good about yourself. Give yourself a little push.
Look for a stylist who understands what you want. When I found one several years back, I just head to the salon and he's do the rest. I don't even need to tell him what I want, cut or color.
Anyways, just passing by.
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