The truth shall set you free… but first it will piss you off. — Women’s rights activist Gloria Steinem
Fresh from last week’s encounter with a dear friend who happens to be a brutally honest man — and who had said to my face, “You look ugly, what did you do to your hair?” — I sat down to dinner with my best friend’s husband (my best friend now, too, by affinity) and got more of the same: a take-no-prisoners kind of critique. But hey, it was truly coming from the heart, if not the gut.
It was my best friend’s birthday party and I was seated with her, her husband, Vince, and four other friends. This story must first be premised by the obvious fact that Vince is a six-foot-plus hunk of a Spaniard. He is Filipino because his parents raised him here but he has lived most of his adult life overseas. He looks nothing like a Filipino; every bit of him screams “Español.” Well, his personality is as big as his physique: larger than life and baroque in ornamentation — grand hand gestures, booming voice, speech peppered with invectives. But not to be misjudged, Vince is anything but the boor that outsiders/onlookers sometimes mistake him to be.
In true Hispanic form, the passion that elevates his voice level and that animates his body language is simply that: passion. And he is passionate about anything that concerns people who matter to him.
“I’m really like this,” he says unapologetically. “Don’t let the volume, the cussing in Spanish, nor the arm raises scare you. That’s just my way of throwing my opinion out there. It means no disrespect whatsoever.” And so we have come to love him and everything about him dearly. It is liberating to be in his company because he says out loud what we only dare think. He is always the life of the party, he never minces words and has therefore become the poster boy for organic truthfulness: non-politicized and agenda-free.
And so, last night, as we sat down to raw salmon salad, he said to me in his trademark thundering voice: “What’s that you’re wearing? Honey, it looks like those Imelda Marcos sleeves. The last two times you were in the house you were wearing those nice come-on clothes. Why do you wear this now, of all times?”
I couldn’t help but laugh because I thought I was truly rocking this red RM by Rouland Mouret, futuristic-type dress. True, the sleeves were so structured that they were cut in pieces first and then sewn together to make them stand out stiffly. The length was oh-so-short so I wore it with black tights. Checking the mirror before I left the house, I remember thinking, perhaps smugly: Not bad at all.
Very wrong. After Vince had his pronouncement, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. It really is the type of dress one either loves or hates. For his part, it was the latter. And after he had brought it up I thought: Heck, fashion can really get ridiculous sometimes. It shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Which, I realized, was exactly what I was doing.
Wait, though. He didn’t stop there. He went on to say, “I know you have chef’s hands because you’re always in the kitchen, always cooking and s*** but could you please go pamper yourself and get a manicure and grow your nails and color them?” He then turned to his wife who was wearing the famed “Vamp” Chanel nail polish — a deep purplish, almost black color. He pointed at her nails and said, “But not that color. I don’t care if it’s Chanel or whatever the hell it is. In my book it’s Morticia Addams’ nail color. You know that black thing on long, pointy nails? That kind.” As he said all this he mimed applying polish to his left fingernails while sweeping his right hand repeatedly over it as a brush would.
At this point everyone on the table was in stitches, me most of all because I couldn’t be bothered sitting in the salon on a weekly basis for a manicure and pedicure. Think of all that wasted time and what I could be doing with it — shame, shame!
He didn’t stop there, though; he was on a roll. He inspected my hair next — the very same thing that had got my other friend so emotional. “And your hair, look at it. What the f***, woman! You come to this party looking like that, like you didn’t even brush it! If I were your husband I would call the parlor people and have them come to the house. If you have a party in the evening, have your mani-pedi done, blow-dry your hair, have some nice makeup going, and pick the dress well. Look at my wife. I made sure she had all that for tonight and we went through her outfits together. She tried them all on for me to see. I told her, ‘Put on the heels first and let’s see them.’” He turned back to me and added, “You should be pampered. That’s how women should be.”
It was heartwarming to have a man fuss over me that way — someone totally invested in the way a woman looks or the way she takes care of herself, someone who cares enough to actually have a good eye, survey everything, form opinions and offer options. Other men couldn’t care less or are too much into themselves to bother with their partners.
I appreciate every minute I spend with Vince because I am dead certain that everything he says comes from the gut. It may feel like a dressing down, but feeling offended or slighted by his criticism is a waste because there is no other place where you can get the real score, straight up. So to Vince I go when I want good advice on life-altering matters, opinions on sensitive issues, or just plain off-the-cuff comments on something as trivial as nail polish color?
Many people would balk at this — women especially — thinking that gentlemen should keep unflattering comments to themselves. A majority of readers’ reactions to my column last week about my unruly hair proved as much.
But if our generation is really as tough as we claim it is then we should never settle for anything less than the truth. Increasingly, men are beginning to see that, over and above patronizing and flattery, earnestness gains them more mileage when it comes to their dealings with women.
There is a time and a place for diplomacy, which is often among colleagues, acquaintances and superiors at work; but among family, in-laws and one’s nearest and dearest friends, down-home honesty should be the order of the day. What good is closeness in relationships if it doesn’t come with the liberty to say what one must, in an atmosphere of trust and acceptance and, most of all, with a generous helping of humor?
Another good friend, Jopy, a Scotch whiskey connoisseur, told me once that real scotch drinkers take theirs “neat,” meaning not on the rocks, not with mixers such as soda or water, but straight up. This is how we should dish out our thoughts to those we hold dear: no fuss, no frills, not circuitously around the bush, not minced into little pieces for easier digestion but “neat”!
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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.