All you (n)ever wanted to know - about my hair

I know it is an unflattering subject, but the choice isn't something from out of the blue. I had my haircut a few hours ago [ I, actually, never got to finish this article two weeks ago.], and while seated at the barber's chair, some memories came rushing back with each snip of the scissors.

The most recent: the other day my seatmate Krisna noted that while she is a few years younger than I, her age could be mistaken for mine. Streaks of white have kept sprouting on her crown. It was also the other day that scientists studying the cause of skin cancer announced that they fortuitously stumbled on the reason for graying of hair.

And so, as I sat on the barber's chair, resisting sleep, my thoughts wandered like movie flashbacks. The first images I saw were those of my friends, three in particular. In deference, I will not disclose their names. Let's just say that they are among the unlucky ones who, at a young age, said goodbye to their crowning glories (At the very least, they still have some glory left on the sides). Yes, I have three balding friends. I bet no one can top that - their number, not their heads.

As my barber (a she) kept trimming my hair, I also counted the many hairstyles I have had. Except for perm, I guess I've tried a lot - long, short, shaved, and hints of color.

As kids, my brother and I always sported the same cut - the Army cut, and it was always done on Sundays and by a specific barber. While Mother would be at the market buying our week-long food supply, Father would drive us to Anko's Barbershop, in our Army jeep, to have our Army cuts. We would wait for hours for our turn on Anko's chair for he was an epitome of exactitude, a fine example of impeccable grooming. From the moment he puts on the barber's cape until it comes off, everything is executed with careful precision. Customer satisfaction came above all else.

There were no long queues in his barbershop since patrons who lived nearby perhaps opted to check from time to time if there's no one on Anko's chair. Occasionally, there would be those who, like us, would wait. Ilocano comics, hanged on plastic strings like curtains for Anko's shop windows, would be on stand-by for those who wait.

The first time I tried to be adventurous with my hair, but with catastrophic results, was in high school. "Spike" was in vogue, and gay parloristas at every street corner can give you the cut at any or no cost. The style was understandably unpopular with my old man, so when I arrived home with spikes as hard as nails, he threw a steal ashtray at me in his fury. My reflexes did not betray me: I was able to shield with my right hand the flying ashtray before it hit my face. A scar is all that remains of that incident, enough to well up the guilt of Father as the fad caught on with the youth. In an instant, guys, even girls, started sporting short, heavily gelled hair, enough to kill a lizard overwhelmed by gravity.

Two gun-totting years of ROTC kept my hairstyles in college uneventful. Later on, with Father in Ilocos and me in Los Banos, I was free to try anything that caught my fancy. Even when I taught at UP, I could sit among my students and not be mistaken as the teacher. Then time came when grunge took its foothold on my generation, and I started to have lesser visits to the barber. When I resigned from UP and applied for a job in a private firm in a far-flung area in Bulacan near the site of Biak-na-Bato, my hair was long enough to touch my shoulders. The people of the company, who I later became friends with, confessed that they referred to me as the applicant needing a grass cutter. Grass cutters were mainstays in our company since talahib always threatened to take over the company premises.

My long hair days were almost cut short when I was invited to speak at the graduation rites of my former schools, both elementary and high school. I hesitated to trim everything away so I had it cut near the jaw line. Still, this did not prevent the President of the university that managed the high school from commenting, "You should be an example to the graduates," while staring straight at myhair with razor-sharp eyes. His words hit me, but the students who smilingly identified with my long hair were enough to soothe my bruised ego. For one moment, I felt like Eddie Vedder in BarongTagalog.

I experimented with color but only during Christmastime. One Christmas, I had my short hair dyed white. I thought I would make me look older but it didn't, on the contrary. Then in a company party at my third job, I had orange hair. During the Christmas break of that year, my niece and nephew were so amused that they pleaded to be carried or had me seated so they could touch my hair. It was rather fun to see Father and Mother having no violent reactions. Probably, they felt it was better seeing an orange-haired alien in their house than a son sporting a tattoo or any body piercing.

Of late, my haircuts have become appropriate for my age. Well, sort of. Occasionally, I have my hair gelled and finger-styled going to all directions like most Japanese do. When I get bored, I would head to the nearest shop and have a very short crop. With the birth of my son, there are now two hairstyles to decide upon. Later on, I'll let Eonas find his own groove. For now, it will be Army cut until I say so.