The last time I had my hair trimmed, the stylist kept mumbling that I should get my hair treated. It was getting hard, he said, and apparently that was not a good condition for hair to be in. So yesterday, on a pre-meditated whim of sorts, I took shelter from the monsoon rain inside a salon in my neighborhood and asked for someone to hot oil my head. The cheaper cream treatment, I insisted. No, there’ll be no need for the one that’s twice as expensive, not when all this hair business doesn’t make much sense to me anyway.
The stylists this time, they kept asking what I did to my hair. Did you have it rebonded? When? What is your natural hair type, Madame? Disregarding what they liked to call me – I mean, Madame? Seriously, do I look that much like a school principal? – I answered all the questions dutifully. Yes, it’s rebonded. I had it done sometime in the first quarter of this year – I don’t remember exactly when. And thank you, dear, for pointing out that my hair isn’t straight. That’s the point of my having gone all the way to Makati to find a salon that would retain a bit of my hair’s natural wave and not transform my head into a holding socket of jet black pick-up sticks.
I’m sure the stylists had the best intentions. But do I really want a Brazilian blowout? Should I aspire to have a Brazilian blowout? Is it such a crime to not want to look like everybody else – because really my main concern is just to make sure that my hair isn’t damaged. So maybe I don’t have highlights, I’ve never had my hair dyed, and I always revert to the same hairstyle when I’m not sure what to do with my head. But the last time I had my hair rebonded, and that salon’s chief stylist held the ends of my hair between his fingers, he pronounced my hair to be healthy. No damage, he said.
Really, that’s good enough for me right now.