All About Hair

As I browsed through my Multiply photos and saw that I’ve been sporting the same long hair style for the past 10 years, I resolved to get a new cut. Who would have thought that it would take about eight agonizing hours in the salon to execute a five-minute decision?

At first, what I wanted was simple enough – a layered cut that falls just above the shoulders. But as I entered my favorite salon on a weekday morning and spoke to the hair stylist, I realized that hair technology has long evolved and nothing, it seems, is really that simple anymore when it comes to hair.

He was quick to fill me in on the latest FYI: “relax” is out, “rebond” is still in, but now there’s “volume straight”, which I was told would be just perfect for me.

No, no, no. I just wanted a simple cut, I told him. The hairstylist just raised an eyebrow, fingered my hair, and declared that it’s sinfully wavy, dull and unruly. Did I really want to spend hours blow-drying and styling my would-be short hair every time? Indeed, a sneaky question that turned my head.

I was still vain enough to be seduced by the promise of “wash and wear”, “instant shine”, and smooth, flip-worthy hair. But, more importantly, I imagined all those extra minutes I could sleep on workday mornings if I could just cut on grooming time. So finally, I took the plunge and said, “All right.”

Chopping off one-foot long of my hair took about 5 seconds. I almost cried. But then, the real torture began as a contingent of salon girls were assigned to work on my hair.

On the first hour, they killed the remains of my hair with a pungent substance to – ironically – give it “new life”. The second hour was a trial by fire as they “cooked” my hair under red lights. On the third hour, they pulled and stretched my hair with iron while my eyes blurred from reading and I could no longer feel my butt.

Just then, the stylist came by to inspect. I growled, “Is it done?” But he just pursed his lips and uttered one word to his minions, “Redo.”

While my tongue tied itself in disbelief, he sweetly explained, “I just want your hair to be perfect, give you your money’s worth.” The stylist was mad, I was sure. But when put that way, who was I to stand in the way of an artist toiling for perfection? Especially when the creation was my hair?

On the fifth hour, I wondered if it was all a mistake. Did I really need to cut my hair in the first place?

By the 6th hour, I was ready to scream. Only the sight of the girl in the mirror patiently ironing my hair for hours without complaint gave me pause. My pain must have been nothing compared to hers. Did she have superwoman powers?

Finally, on the 8th hour, the verdict was in. “Aahh, perfect!” the hairstylist crooned happily.

So much for vanity, I no longer cared. I was hungry and, to my chagrin, already late for a dinner meeting.


-- Published SunStar Weekend, 11/29/2008

Marco Polo

Along the winding road of Nivel Hills you’ll find one of Cebu’s towering landmarks, the Marco Polo Plaza Hotel. Like its legendary namesake, it exudes a charming blend of the East and West, made evident in its continental rooms, Asian hospitality, and mixed cuisine.

One time, I was seated at the Café Marco, mentally prepping myself for a long awaited interview with a European hotelier. For this meeting, I was properly dressed in my most flattering business attire—French braid, Americana top, Italian pumps. Still, I was anxious. I knew it takes so much more than a Western outfit to deal with a continental man.

What is it about European men that flusters me a bit? Is it their strange tongue, their deadpan humor, or simply the fact that I always have to crane my neck to level with their eyes?

To soothe my nerves, I let my eyes wander around the café, well-known for its fine culinary fare of Asian, Japanese and Western flavors showcased on signature kitchens. I fiddled with the table napkin which, I noted, bore the mark of a horse with one leg raised, as if about to bolt.

This particular image made me think of another European guy, Marco Polo, a 13th century Venetian trader and explorer who journeyed to the East and back for 24 years.

History tells that despite Marco’s strangeness in the Eastern world, he was among the first foreigners to be welcomed in Asia. In fact, though he was no prince, he managed to charm his way to a trusted position in the courts of Kublai Khan, ruler of the biggest empire of the east.

What was Marco Polo’s secret? Instead of being shunned or killed for his white skin, how was he able to travel safely and extensively in the unknown Eastern world, relate to different peoples, blend in cultures completely alien in spirit to his own, and even gain the trust of a most feared Mongolian emperor, Kublai Khan?

Was it his education, his proficiency in different languages? Was it blind faith or courage? Or was he simply fortunate that Kublai Khan at that time bore an open mind and a curious nature for foreign cultures?

With my mind still reeling of pictures of Marco Polo on horseback, my appointment arrived. As expected, he towered over my 5’2” frame. Before I could take a deep breath, the European gentleman extended a pale hand for a warm handshake. I smiled. Maybe, sometimes, that’s all it takes to blur the lines between the East and West.

-- Published SunStar Weekend, 11/15/08