Week 1: Shear Off My Hair

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I’ve had the Betty Boop look (from the neck up) for five days now. And it has been refreshing. I used to dread shampooing my hair because it took so long to dry. Now, with most of my hair shorn off, I can have the rest of it dry within minutes.

It wasn’t such a monumental thing, cutting off my hair. In these days of widespread poverty and environmental disasters, the issue of haircuts, I understand, should be about as important as a piece of rubble in an abandoned building.

Still, that didn’t stop me from rushing to the Lucy Britanico salon in Glorietta (thank you, Kat Manalo-Erro, for the recommendation) in the midst of panic-packing for our Holy Week in Marinduque. Kat suggested I tell my hairstylist about myself so he’d know what kind of hairstyle would fit me to a T – that means, preferably a style that requires zero manipulation.

Rudolph, my hairstylist, immediately knew what to do. After asking me twice if I was sure I wanted to cut it all off (well, most of it – one bald person in the family is enough), he parted my hair and snipped of some eight inches. No drama. Ayluvet.

Under the expert hands of Rudolph (he is my hairstylist for life, I can feel it in my bones), my hair was sculpted into a neat little cap that made me want to look at my face forever. But then, as soon as I left the salon, my naturally wavy hair decided it was safe to curl up again. With each step I took away from Lucy Britanico, I sealed the fate of my hair further and further.

So now, hundreds of miles away, I sit on the bed with a head of wild, wild hair. I tried , though. Post-cut, I used hair serum, as Rudolph suggested. But instead of coming out sleek, like how it was in the salon, my hair this time came out in clumps. It looked as if I applied egg whites instead of serum. I should have taken photos of my new hairstyle right there at the salon. Now, I don’t want anyone to see photos of my new “hairstyle” lest I immortalize my look in cyberspace.

I’ve decided this would be the right time to buy a hair dryer (yep, never owned one in my life). If, after a few sessions with that, my hair still doesn’t cooperate, I’ll grow it out. So I can once again ignore it in its bun.

On to week two.

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About supertamad

Welcome! So glad you could stop by. My name is Cecile and I like to write stories, especially if they're true, like the stuff in here. Most of my stories talk about the people most important to me--The Hub, The One with the Toilet Humor, and The Manipulator (I swear, they have normal names in real life). So grab that drink, sit back, and read on; I put up this blog to make life more fun for me, and hopefully for you, as well. Cheers!

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