I’m on the fifth floor of the Commerce and Industry Plaza of Megaworld, the new office of the Philippine Public Safety College. The wind is howling and trees are dancing with the “emptiness” of the McKinley Hills sans complete development. In a few years tall buildings will block the fresh air of today. Downstairs everyone’s hair is blowing and unruly. Ah, speaking of hair, I lost years of memories in my life after a haircut.
Let me tell you about that. My daughter Mai had promised to bring me to her hairdresser in Italy. I really wanted to look different since December. Some gurus say older women should have shorter hair so as not to “drag” the face down. Others suggest a low bun at the nape of the neck. Either way, I was tired of looking stern. My first haircut was feathery and multi-layered. It was carefree yet sophisticated but it required blow-drying which I never have time for in Manila.
Mai planned the streaks in my hair, too, with Josue and Antonio, two parlor partners. Josue wanted to soften my black-brown hair. After all, hair has become a primary accessory. Lightening and darkening it, streaked red, white or blond — anything goes, even pink and blue for chocolate-skinned women to pale white women about to go into a swoon.
Two days after my first haircut Mai brought me back to Josue the hairstylist. I was now the daring and willing victim in Florence, ready and excited to cut my hair shorter. I knew now was the correct time or never. Hair and person (or willing victim) have to adjust to one another, as do clothes, poise and attitude adjust to a new appearance. I felt one week would be enough time to give me the confidence to puff it up with my fingers or pat it down tight on my scalp. I had to learn to handle short hair.
I sat reading a magazine while Mai gave instructions in Italian. I didn’t know a conspiracy was taking place behind my back. “Let’s cut it shorter,” Mai said to Josue while China was dead worried. I found out later that Mai whispered to her “Shut up. Don’t be nervous, it’s only hair.”
I didn’t know five inches of my hair lay on the floor. My hair was getting shorter and shorter while I read Vogue. I’ve had locks cut off only three times in my life — high school, in the ‘70s, and in the ‘80s; after that, I swore “never again.” Short to me means hair resting on my shoulder. But my hair was now below by ear! I was afraid of being censured by my husband who likes long hair — sad about not living up to simplicity — fearful of society’s expectations. Don’t we all crave acceptance with multi-layers of expectations from us?
Expectations. As women we are always expected to act properly. Prim and proper. No mini-skirts, no plunging necklines, dressing appropriate to one’s age.
We are expected to be demure. No loud laughter, sitting properly, with legs together and table manners that are impeccable.
We are expected to communicate well — a dignified vocabulary, well-educated, better-bred and knowledgeable in many topics, and never foul-mouthed.
Society has preconceived notions. Fathers are expected to provide while the mother is the “Ilaw ng tahanan,” tasked to nurture their children.
Parents are expected to be the chief protectors of their children. They are expected to punish their children when the latter make mistakes and then reward them for acts that are meritorious.
Most importantly, parents are expected to be good examples. Not to drink excessive alcohol in front of the children because they might follow. Not to swear, nor tell white lies.
And so forth and so on…
But surprise! Now with my hair differently styled, I felt liberated about my adulthood choice!
As Mai-Mai’s says, “Hair will grow. Learn to enjoy it, Mom. You needed a contemporary look for a change.” So true. Trust the opinion of youth! It’s taken off years from my looks. Conclusion: we should listen to our children. Point two, over time there’s a reversal of roles. Children plan for us, tell us what to do, try to boss us around if they can, attempting to run our lives.
Being alone in my Manila office I reminisce more, missing my child and hers. No more sweaters. I gave Mai back the cashmere T-shirts in colors gray and black I had borrowed from her. That’s an advantage to having five daughters, sharing and interchanging clothes and makeup. One sweater wasn’t enough to keep warm in Firenze. Patong-patong was the safest remedy to prevent us from catching a cold in spite of a fleece, woolen or fur coat. How appropriate down jackets were. They’re puffed up like warm blankets. How attractive and elegant Italian men and women look with scarves around their necks and overcoats with their hair like lionesses, girls and even boys, with blond, brunette and hair streaked with different highlights. Oriental men and women tend to be more studied in their appearance and rather stiffly coiffed and less at ease.
I remember dropping a black dress into the suitcase — along with a black and white blouse I never wore. Each piece of clothing held a memory. The gray T-shirt I wore in Pointe Vicchio, the bridge a block long with jewelry stores. It was but a ghost of itself with few shoppers — it being the winter, mid-January — and so dark at 7 p.m.
The long knitted black dress I wore reminded me of walking in a dark passage, actually a narrow road that led me to the fashionable street, Via de Tornabuoni. The pants that hugged my legs caused static electricity to erupt when I opened a doorknob. The knitted gray long dress with the faux fur I wore at a dinner where I ate grilled octopus in olive oil while Andrea and Evan sealed a contract for Andrea’s latest line Tokie Dokie of Los Angeles for 400 outlets. Tokie Dokie is a brand of cosmetic bags whose material is like Louie Vuitton’s but with a touch of childhood. A cartoon character — even a Swastika mark on one side — is stuck there for laughs and contrast. The practical and the absurd.
Slowly the room I occupied became absent of the personality of the occupant. Me! Each piece of cosmetic and clothing and shoes were placed into Benetton and Segue suitcases courtesy of Andrea. Was I catching a cold or was I crying? I stared momentarily at my daughter and her child who were playing on the bed. I am happy I stayed one week longer. I feel the pangs of sadness as I’m close to departure. If only traveling to Europe was cheaper. I realize we have, each of us, a place on earth. Mine is 14 hours away. Already I’m tempted to return to Italy in the summertime. How sad it is to leave behind Mai and a smiling grandchild, Tutti, who laughs at the sound of that word.
As I checked in at the airport my fourth daughter suddenly looked mature in the dark at 5:20 a.m. I must look very old myself now. I lined up for my duty-free discount — otherwise I’d have to pay 12 percent more on my credit card. I truly love Firenze. Its history, art and shops haunt me. Every Italian we’ve met has been always kind, and Mai has assimilated their way of life from expressions to commands to jokes and threats and even streaked hair after 10 years.
It is time to kiss each other and shed some tears. Off we go on the airport bus that’s as final as getting on a plane and flying away. Not quite yet, as it turned out.
The announcement aboard the Meridiana, the plane to take us from Florence to Amsterdam, was “There will be a one-hour delay. It is snowing and raining in Amsterdam.” I told China, “Never mind, that will lessen the five-hour wait for the KLM flight to Manila.” KLM is the most convenient airline to take from the Philippines to Europe. In 10 hours you’re across continents in a comfortable chair that turns into a flat bed with the kindest of services.
Which brings me to another point. Not an advertisement for KLM, but praise. I prefer the flight attendants on my flights to look and be more mature. I feel I’m safer and they’re more responsible and less self-conscious. Some flight attendants on our local flights are too young and worried about their physical appearance — and it shows. I was on a flight to Davao when suddenly the plane dipped frighteningly downward several meters during that night’s typhoon. The flight attendants screamed, which in turn alarmed us — the passengers who thought it was doomsday. Now that’s certainly a no-no.
From the air it was paper white all over Amsterdam. I had never seen layers and layers of snow like white angel cake icing. I remembered numerous snowflakes light as feathers balancing on branches of trees and leaves, one on top of the other. I watched that Christmas scene from green wooden louvered windows of the Villa de Tres Esperanza, my home, one month of the year with a family of three. Eleven hours later we had touched down in Manila, with sad-happy feelings.