There are only three utterly serious quests in my life ( as of the moment ): the Search for the Ultimate Career ( almost there! ), the Search for the Ultimate Sensitive-Yet-Straight-With-Good-Grooming-Habits Man ( this may ultimately prove futile ), and the Search for the Ultimate Hairdresser.
Uh, by the way, I had another haircut yesterday. Just one of those spur of the moment decisions..... It's nothing grand. I opted to have it layered as usual.... I guess I'm not yet crazy to have it curled or permed for it seems that it's the rage this season. Mind you, I had wavy and freezy hair for 8 long years! Thank God to whoever invented the hair straigthening solution. Whew!
My love affairs with various hairdressers have resulted in bigger devastation than my more or less flings. When you call it quits to someone, all you end up with are eyebags and worthless souvenirs; when you and your hairdresser part ways, it maybe because he or she ( or a he that looks like a she ) snipped your tresses in Madonna's cut during the '80's last year.... and it hasn't fully grown out.
So, beware of sleek seducers who whisper gently in your ear that bangs are tres chic this month. Woe to those who believe that the spraynet is by far, the greatest thing ever invented. And definitely, steer clear of aspiring mane-manglers who learn techniques from a horrifying tv show where an overly shoulder padded host transforms the model's simple straight hair into a gothic masterpiece of teased brambles and bobby pins ala Pamela Anderson.
In the course of Searching for the Ultimate Hairdresser, I learned lots of stuff that should prove valuable to all women.
They have, for example, their own lingo, which I have yet to master. Here in
Zip your mouth. Not a word. Not even a burp.
Hairdressers have mastered the art of making you feel really shy after they finish with your hair (that’s what I observed) so much so that you don’t have the heart (or the guts) to say the Cobra look crawled away ten years ago.
Most hairdressers are like salesladies. When you ask what they think of your haircut, they will always say, “Yes it’s great, it’s pretty!” Yah right! Even when you look like you’re wearing a wig, they’re like a tape recorder humming that their cut is pretty. There are other stylists (usually the overpaid ones) who will nod and nod and nod to your specifications, then proceed to skin your head, or do everything you did not say.
The worst cutter I ever had was the same one I first went too when I was six years old. By the time I was twelve, teetering on the threshold of womanhood, my hairdresser still refused to cut my hair any other way than the apple cut. Yuck.
“You’re still so young!” she insisted, pinching my chubby cheeks and then looking me over. “You see, you still have baby fats!”.
I looked at her crossly and, with as much dignity as I could muster, said haughtily. “That’s not baby fat. Those are my breasts!”
Sadly, but with much relief on my part, we parted ways.
During my second year in high school, when my hair began to grow wavy and freezy from straight locks in which, I didn't have any idea why it turned that way, I’ve decided to have it cut short. I went to a nearby salon and entrusted my hair to a gum-cracking gay who promised he would sculpt and style my hair into a flattering cropped mop.
When I emerged from the salon, people stepped away from me. Even stray dogs growled at me. Upon reaching home, I asked my brother for his opinion.
“You look like Flor Contemplacion”. For those guys who doesn’t have any idea who Flor Contemplacion is, she was the domestic helper who was hanged in Singapore for killing two people according to Singaporean officials. End result, The Philippines and Singapore nations were on a collision course. I do remember that Hazel and I with the rest of the students prayed the Holy Rosary and cried to the saints for an hour in our icky catholic school. That long huh? She was not save though.
Anyway, i stormed into the salon the next day, determined to raise hell, but when I faced my hairdresser, I was seized by an enormous wave of low self-esteem. I pointed to my head and stammered, "Wha-what will I do with this?" I'm that idiot.
The stylist blew a large bubble with his gum, popped it and chewed thoughtfully. "Don't worry, it will grow out," he assured me.
It took the better part of two years to grow the damn thing out. In all that time, I never wore orange, fearing that police car would stop me in the middle of the road one day and take me to the precinct.
Feeling wiser and definitely more mature after that harrowing phase of my life, I was determined to give only the best to my poor, tortured hair. Upon the recommendation of a friend, I tried a salon where the hairdressers were supposedly trianed in the latest techniques.
I told one of them that I wanted something that's in the middle. To put it more bluntly, it's in their hands and their scissors. I should have been aptly warned when she nodded mindlessly while I perused a magazine, but hey, I was bubbly with newfound optimism.
She gave me side burns.
Actually, more of side-kismes. I looked like a mutant for crying out loud! (Think of Wolverine of the X-Men Series) Which I did, -- cry out loud, that is --- when I got home and my brothers, my mother, father and best friend laughed at me. My dog just sort of guffawed in his doggy way. The good news was that, it took me only a month to grow that one out.
I suppose that hairdressers are a lot like boyfriends. They will occasionally lie to you, but they think it's for your own good. They will act like they're listening to you, but they're probably thinking about something more important to them, like their ingrown toenail or the schedule for the last full showing of the latest hit movie.
Now, I go to a very stable, very well known salon where the hairdressers are so overpaid they actually listen to you in non-hair lingo. And I am now sporting a casual, layered cut that goes well with any decade and any color. Sometimes though, I see my hairdresser's eyes glaze over once in a while when I tell her what I want to do with my hair, and I still feel shy after a not-so-nice-trim.
The search goes on.
