I later explained that cameras scare me and that I really am kinda normal. They all just nodded and sent me on my way. I was so depressed and disgusted with myself that I consoled myself at the Nars counter at Essences. Then as I rubbed different lip glosses and cheek creams to brighten my face paled from shame, I reminisced on the times when I flew out of the cuckoo’s nest.
Norman Bates once said that "Everyone goes a little mad sometimes." Upon remembering that quote from the Patron Saint of Wierdos, I realized that everyone can get a litlle, uh, strange sometimes. My wig-out episode is just the latest installment from my Makati Med Basement Soap Opera. I don’t feel alone in this predicament. There are several femme fatales who become fatal sometimes. I mean it’s part of being a woman.
I believe the number-one venue for a woman to wig out in is at the parlor. I am a relatively calm person. I know how to count to 10 when I’m pissed to avoid any snaps. I let minor worries pass. And when a guy does not call when he says he will, I just eat a Holland Sausage and down a huge mug of chamomile tea. However, there are times when life just gets too hard. Once I asked a hairdresser to blow-dry my hair Winona Ryder style (tall order, I know). I ended up looking like little orphan Annie  very Girl...Interrupted. I ran to the toilet and cried. Mind you, this was 10 minutes before a hot date. My friend who is also a walking Valium, conked out when some ingenious hair stylist styled her hair space cadet/Imelda Marcos style. She screamed "This hair does not exist!" There are times when it’s just plain peculiar. Another friend of mine brought in her chocolate lab and said, "I want my hair this color"...afraid. Maybe it’s the irritating buzz of the hair dryers, the stench of acetone, the mind numbing assortment of cheezy hair magazines or the heady scent of lemon-scented shampoo... but parlors really are loony bins disguised as beauty Meccas. The longer a woman stays in a parlor, the stranger she is. Nothing inspires madness more effectively than vanity.
Speaking of vanity, what about having nothing to wear. No matter how much shit you have hanging in your closet, there will always be that night. The night wherein you know that you’ll bump into your man du jour. That night wherein you know that you’ll be having a glaring war with your newest nemesis. That night wherein you know you’ll be rubbing elbows with your old flame’s new amour. That night wherein implosion is inevitable and glamour is a must. That happened to me a few weeks ago. Just got back from a trip and I knew that my newest object of desire would be milling about breaking hearts (including mine). I was so focused in assembling a fight outfit. It was all no good  too much skin, no skin, bad color, too prissy, too FAMAS, etc... There I was sitting down amidst a sea of chiffon, tulle, wool, satin and cotton, crying my eyes out. I mixed myself a drink and decided to wear jeans and a shirt. I did not bump into him. It was all very anti-climatic  like a bad movie with a good trailer. I know it sounds ditzy but I’m sure that you can all relate.
Hunger can drive a woman crazy. It’s actually very ironic. I’m there torn by my anorexic mind and voracious appetite. It’s like an alcoholic on step three in AA-rabid, hungry and restrained. I bark at people like a caged Doberman. While people would surf Internet porn during the odd hours of the night, I would surf through recipe and food sites, having lustful thoughts of cheesecake and lamb shank. It was so bad during college... I was so overweight but my fat would all settle in my gut. I looked pregnant. My friends actually made stories about it. Some friends. Anyway I decided to go on a diet. I went to the gym every day and worked out for three hours. I literally brought along a mini weighing scale and a calorie-counter book so that I could correctly measure my fat and calorie intake. I took it with me on a date once. You should have seen his face as I measured the calorie and fat content of the skinless chicken breast I was ordering. I did it with the intensity of an MIT professor. He was so scared! Hey, at least I was a cheap date. Then one day I snapped and had a grease orgy in Burger King. I was never so happy in my whole life. I swear I saw the face of God.
As we get older, we become more in control of ourselves. With the exception of my VTR fiasco, I conduct myself in a more controlled fashion. I mean, I can now actually sound cool when my boy toy du jour calls even when I’m actually peeing in my pants with joy. I also lie better now. I used to stutter and blink a lot. Now I just shake a bit but only my close friends can tell. Just kidding  okay, I’m lying. However, there are certain devastations that we cannot shake ourselves from. The true test of a lady is her ability to hold grace under pressure. The truth of being a woman is her natural inclination to go insane. Choose your own adventure.