Hair, There and Everywhere

I recently had a very drastic haircut, thanks to my friend Mich, one of the most fasyon, on-the-cutting-edge-of-style people I know. She's currently in beauty school at Franck Provost, learning all about the unglamorous things behind the glamor. I got my haircut for free, with Mich and this superstar senior stylist (who, I heard, costs about P1,300 a pop) named Python tag-teaming my hair. I got it for free because I was one of the brave souls willing to be beauty school guinea pig. Or 'model', as they dubiously refer to anyone who subjects herself (or himself) and her hair to the hesitant scissor-holding hands of the students.

Other than the fact that my haircut took more than two hours, since every snip was subject to Python's (and Alvin, the other senior stylist, whose specialty, apparently, was blowdrying) scrutiny, it wasn't such a terrifying experience. It was actually liberating.

For over a year, I had been growing my hair for my wedding. And for the first time in my life, my hair was past the bra-strap mark. But I have absolutely no patience to fix my hair. I like wash-and-wear hair. I cannot blowdry, plait, twist or do anything French with my hair. The most I will do is brush it, and ponytail it. This at least has two variations: high and low. On really, really special occasions, however, I will crouch in front of a fan and shake my hair dry.

The heat of the past months made my hair unbearably heavy, hot and unbelievably annoying. No matter how neatly I tied it back, some strands would always manage to escape, totally irritating me by hanging around my face and tickling my nose or poking my eye. Plus I felt that I was going bald! Between the strands on my pillow in the morning, and the strands that came out in the shower, plus whatever got stuck in the brush, I felt I had enough hair to make a wig.

When Mich said that she needed a few guinea pigs--I mean models--I was only too willing to chop everything off.

I like my new hair. I think it suits me. Now the only problem is, for the life of me, I cannot fix my hair. Mich et al said to apply some 'product' and--to quote them directly--"ganyan-ganyanin mo lang, o," (loosely translated, just do whatever). So far, my "ganyan-ganyanin" has produced some freaky Einstein-inspired 'do; an overdosed-on-product-do-you-ever-think-of-washing-your-hair-icky-oily-limp-hair 'do; a let's-all-curl-in-this-direction-no matter-what-direction-we're-being-styled do; and an I-give-up-fine-do-whatever 'do.

So far I've gotten the most compliments for the last style.

Lopping off at least two kilos of hair has simplified my mornings. I now just get out of the shower, and, since I have declared myself hopelessly un-fasyon, leave my hair to dry at will. This produces interesting results--none of which will ever come close to what my hair looked like when I left Franck Provost, wonderfully whipped into shape by Mich and Python.

As for the falling hair on the pillow and shower, since The Hubby and I have about the same length of hair now, I just blame it all on him.