Serendipity
Short-change
I looked at the Korean hairdresser with trepidation. He was short, reed thin, and had an uncanny resemblance to Dolphy during his Sampaguita days. He also had curly hair, the kind that he was obviously not born with, and I thought, "Should I trust this guy?" I mean, I could trust a gay hairdresser who looked like Dolphy with a bad perm any given day, but a guy hairdresser who looked like Dolphy with a bad perm? Nah. I've known a lot of gay men, my best friend being one of them, and I was positively sure that this Dolphy doppelganger was straight as an arrow. In my world, a straight hairdresser was a definite no-no.
I knew I should have bolted out of the hair salon before any permanent damage was done. But for some unexplainable reason, my butt stayed glued on the swiveling chair with the pedals tightly locked. I was suddenly and irrevocably at the mercy of Dolphy's sharp shears. "Wa haircut you like?" Great, the guy could barely speak pidgin English. How am I supposed to tell him that if he makes even a teensy-weensy mistake with the length and the style, I will hunt him down and the rest of his clan in Korea?
I glared at Dolphy, giving him my serious, no-nonsense, I-mean-business face as I pointed to a 2005 magazine picture of Jessica Alba with short hair. I secretly prayed when Dolphy nodded in understanding; his scissors poised for that first, painful snip. As I sat there gripping the edge of the chair while Mr. Curly Tops lopped my locks, I knew that the worst was about to come.
I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. The last time I went short was six years ago and I didn't even go willingly. A gay hairdresser friend of mine probably spiked my drink and drugged me throughout the whole process because when I woke up, I had a bob cut and my hair had hues previously unseen on humans. From that time on, I've grown my hair long. I figured, I'd rather look ten years older with my long hair than look like Paris Hilton's Chihuahua after a day of pampering in a Beverly Hills dog salon.
The plan to cut my hair short had been brewing for quite some time. I never had the courage to do it until now. I knew that this was the perfect time, this being a time of change; well, for me at least. Will I come out of here as the butt of all jokes? Will I be called "helmet-head" behind my back? Will small children point their chubby fingers at me and laugh, or worse, cry? Or will I step out into the streets, emancipated and free from the shackles of my old life and the long hair that was weighing me down?
And then, just as my thoughts began to formulate the fastest way to escape from the Korean fiend and the chopping of more precious hair -- I suddenly felt giddy, light, like a ton of baggage was lifted from my shoulders. As the dead ends fell to the floor like autumn leaves, I felt renewed -- alive! Then, with seemingly dramatic flair, Dolphy whipped the plastic cape off of my shoulders, and I could almost hear the drumrolls. The deed was done. There was no escape, no turning back. I slowly opened my eyes and stared at the new me. And I . . . beamed. Holy Moly! I looked ten years younger! Pleased by my reaction, Dolphy examined his handiwork. Although he looked a tad smug, he was probably more relieved that I would not be hunting his family after all.
My eyes twinkled as I objectively appraised my reflection in the mirror. I will never be a Jessica Alba look-alike (and I was never a fan of hers anyway, it was just her 2005 hair that I wanted to covet), but I was happy with myself. If I may say so, for a 30-something woman, I didn't look bad, not bad at all. I realized that I had a graceful neck (ahem!), and my shoulders, newly-bare, glistened under the bright lights of the salon. All of a sudden, I couldn't understand the reasons for my apprehensions, why I had been so scared at the thought of doing this. Then it dawned on me: sometimes we just have to get out of our comfort zones, try things out, take risks, venture into the unknown, or simply, in my case, get a haircut in order to discover what and who we really are.
I skipped out into the crowded street. My chin-length hair light as a feather, dancing with the summer breeze. A little girl holding her mother's hands looked up at me and -- smiled! I grinned back, relieved. Ah, change was good.