Hair apparent
I look like an Afghan hound. A sort of surrealist version of the “Rachel” ‘do crowns my impatient head as I try to ride through what Judy Blume and psychologists may label as the awkward phase. Goody bands are my friend and now I can pull them back into a baby ponytail with the help of seven carats worth of diamond-hard hair gel, only to look like myself with the slicked short hair I’ve had for the past 10 years.
They say that as you get older, the greater your responsibilities are and the shorter your hair becomes. Short hair says, “I’m busy!” while long hair says “What are you doing later?” The latter is what I am trying to strive for. I had short hair all my 20s, mainly because I was aware that I could not tend to a gleaming mop while I serfed my way in the office and into happy hour. I had no time for hair conditioner, brushes and certainly sitting in the salon for a blow dry. The sound of blowdriers, to me, resemble nails on the chalkboard. Plus I see salon time as alluring as a trip to the dentist: necessary but painful. I was never one to say, “I want to pamper myself today and get the princess package!” I only need to get my talons trimmed and my eyebrows in place, and maybe the only pleasurable thing was getting a back rub to soothe the stab marks on my back. Never mind having a blow out. I know what’s needed in creating that Serena Van der Woodsen “I-don’t-care-about-anyone” lioness mane and it ain’t just volumizing shampoo. It requires the squeal of a power hairdryer, loads of rollers, mousse (yes, it’s making a comeback) and patience (which is a prerequisite for any long-haired femme). There’s a lot of caring when it comes to achieving that I-don’t-care kind of hair.
As I’m growing my hair I am learning the virtue I should have learned way back in my teens: patience. (It would have saved me from many disastrous social faux pas, like calling the guy I like because he won’t call me only to royally eff it up, or wearing a hot trend that my intellect has not yet fully evaluated only for it to be immortalized in paparazzi photos and the museum of regret.) Today, as my bangs cover my eyes like slugs, Cousin It-style, I await the day I can finally pull the damn thing back with a ridiculously sweet elastic without the help of gel and bobby pins.
I have asked people about hair extensions. The two girls I know who have them look like I-don’t-care kind of goddesses. They love them and say that it’s no biggie at all. I realize it is a biggie. Maybe it’s just me, but paying a thousand dollars for hair extensions seems like a crime during the credit crunch. Give the damn money to charity, more like it. (Also because I have rent, a household to run, a shoe habit to nurse, a crunchy credit card and layaway stuff from 2007 to pay.) So I think I’ll kick it old skool and let it grow from Afghan hound to maltese in natural time.
When I was younger, I had really long hair. People came up to me begging to care for my hair as if it was my only redeeming trait. Never mind that I knew the classics way before high school, that I used to paint with photographic precision (this talent was later replaced by my abilty to scare boys) and read the Bible and history books just because. Oh no, all my aunts and, of course, my fashionable mother would tell me to take care of my glossy black hair. Then one day I was in a Japanese hairdresser’s salon in Saks Fifth Avenue for a trim when I was 14. His fingers were hypnotizing, he tended to bonsai trees, proving the happy lives of miniature trees come from such talented fingers. He was surveying my hair and I began to nod off. His magic fingers felt so good when he shampooed my hair that when it came down to business I was drunk in bonsai finger magic and incapable of completing sentences — I was Audrina from The Hills. “So you want shoulder?” he asked in his thick Japanese accent. “Uh huh” I said wanting him to rub my head like a pet. (No wonder dogs have it so good!) He proceeded to snip as I fell asleep in his chair. I woke up and there I was: G.I. Jane. Well not really, but it sure was not a bob. It was a total tight crop that was in between Demi Moore G.I. Jane and Ghost. When he said “shoulder,” he meant “shorter.” I cried. I had lost my crowning glory. My mother would never love me. My aunts would stop fawning over me. But after the hysteria, I realized I quite liked it. The hair, I mean.
The hardest thing about this whole growing out thing is being separated from Henri Calayag. I rely on him to truly tell me what’s wrong with me: from my men to how I put on my eyeliner. He has seen me in all my incarnations. All my delilahs. I met him when my mom told me I could go to a celebrity hairdresser. I knew Henri did Sharon Cuneta’s hair then. And Sharon was like my Gwyneth. He actually made me like my “shoulder” hair and taught me the many ways to style it. Later on, he styled me in my dating life, every red carpet event and almost every magazine cover shoot I did. I could not do anything without Henri. So now as I grow my hair, which he refuses to touch until it is long, as in Serena-long, I keep him close by using his lipglosses. I miss Henri.
My boyfriend encourages me to stay strong. I ask him every day if I should cut it. He always says, “This is how I know you.” Whatever that means, it feels encouraging. The day I pulled it back in a complete ponytail we both jumped with joy, although I’m pretty sure he didn’t know what he was being joyful about.
So yes, I’m almost there. I have now occupied my time studying hair conditioners and have finally bought a Mason Pearson hairbrush. Before that I was using the wooden brush that they give at the Ritz Carlton for free. I can’t wait for it to be long enough so I can finally use that Twilly as a ponytail holder rather than as a headband, which is how I’ve been using it for years. Time to put that look to rest.
