N.B. These "lessons" entries have been posted a week too late. Thus "yesterweek" actually refers to the week before last...or in Pinoy terms "last, last week."
When my thesis teacher looms before me, two things come to mind. First, it has to do with an interesting concoction of fear and apprehension. Thesis writing is no easy task and the world does not need to be reminded of such a predicament. The second thing which comes to mind is more positive, depending on the point of view. I am constantly reminded of my ignorance. Learning, like change, is constant. Both seem to work hand-in-hand, much like the "chicken-and-the-egg" question. Learning effects change. People get acquainted with new ideas which help them do certain things better...or in some cases, worse. In another scenario, change effects learning. Change is imposed on a person or object that he has to learn a different technique or concept so he has to be able to adapt fully and effectively to the change.
Enough on the ranting about change. It's getting cheesy I almost feel like regurgitating the cheeseburger I had just this afternoon.
Yesterweek, I had two particularly interesting learning experiences. One was practical, whereas the other was theoretical. Last Tuesday, I decided to cut my hair after two years of abstinence from scissors.
Actually that was a fib of some sort. For the past two years, I had succeeeded in growing my hair from ear-level to a little past my armpits. This was quite a feat for someone like me who chops hair off as soon as it starts reaching the shoulders. Last May, I ran into trouble while working on my thesis. As I walked home from school, I felt like my head was really heavy on my shoulders. I took a side trip to the mall, waltzed into the salon and asked the stylist to cut my hair. He maintained the length but just cut off bits and pieces, giving it a layered look.
Now I'm the kind of person who resorts to haircuts instead of beer. Last Tuesday, I once more got frustrated with my work. I had actually been contemplating on trimming my hair when I saw a picture of how I looked two years ago when the F4 guys had (way!) longer hair than me. But Tuesday gave me the proper motivation. I nonchalantly pushed the glass doors of the salon and asked for a stylist. My hair was given the usual ceremony (shampoo and conditioner) prior to executing the death sentence.
The stylist (a different one this time) asked me what cut I wanted. I showed him that picture of myself two years ago. I clearly stated I wanted around two to three layers, with the longest ending in the same level as my chin. My hair is naturally thick and wavy so it has a severe tendency to blow itself up in huge, uncharacteristic proportions like a hot-air balloon. When it's short, my hair is shaped like a Fuji apple with baseballs implanted inside. Adding layers makes it look tamer. Not exactly tame like Cousin It but less fuzzy than a lion's mane.
Now I should have known something was about to go wrong. The stylist kept on showing me pictures from magazines and asking me if this was the look I wanted. I'd answer him by pushing away the magazine and shoving the picture in his nose. He repeatedly rammed hairstyling jargon into my already puzzled face and I'd respond by repeating the same specifications: two to three layers, longest layer at chin-level, refer to picture for illustration purposes. Finally he said he understood me.
I heaved a sigh of relief too early. He first cut my hair at one-length at chin-level. Then he called for someone to blow-dry my hair. Puzzled, I asked him about the layers. He said he'd first blow-dry my hair then do the rest of the work. I am no veteran of beauty salons but I have had enough haircuts to tell me that blow-drying is the last step, when the cut is in its final stage. So I relented and repeated to myself what Bridget Jones said to herself in Edge of Reason: "I am in the hands of a genius." I have nothing to worry about, right?
I was just about to realize how horrendously wrong I was.
When my hair was all dried up, he came back with his scissors in his hand. I reminded him about the layers again, almost with a hint of pleading and an edge of desperation in my voice. He said he was going to work on it now. I was getting unnecessary apprehension from a haircut when it was supposed to help reduce the weight from my already heavy head. He then started cutting the ends of my hair but did no more than just making little snippets here and there. I asked him about the layers once more like a kid pleading with mother for a lollipop, but he ignored me. I gripped the armrests hard, almost ripping the rubber from the metal frame of the chair. I said it louder one more time, now with more hints of a threat than a request. If he ignored me one more time, I'd seize the scissors from his hand and render his eyebrows extinct. He probably read my murderous glare so he stopped cutting and turned to me. In his sweetest voice, he said that he was not going to give me a layered cut because, according to him, it did not suit the shape of my face because, to reword it nicely, it was round and big - synonyms of the word "fat." I clenched my teeth so hard I almost unhinged my jaw. I kept quiet until he was done with my cut. I rose from the chair, paid the bill for the haircut and stormed out of the door.
The next morning, I washed my hair and when it dried, I wanted to make a mad dash for the salon. I looked like I had a pumpkin on my head. It was huge and fuzzy and was everything I did not want. I did not know what to do. I called Em and all she could suggest was to stick my head in a vat of conditioner or mousse.
It would have been all right if only the stylist followed my specifications. If my hair looked like it was blown up in the middle of the sky because of my mistake, I could live with that. I have the person to blame right where my arms could easily strangle her. The fault was mine and mine alone. But then in this scenario, the person to blame was the stylist who decided to murderlize my hair completely at his discretion. What is it to him if I decide to go as bald as the day I was born? I reached out to pull his eardrums into visibiclity yet I get nothing but air. Arrrggghhh! The monstrosity of battling an invisible enemy!
Lessons learned:
1.1 If the stylist looks - and sounds - like he does not know what he is about to do aside from snapping scissors, ask for a new one. If you don't, it would be tantamount to asking a five-year old to cut your hair for you. But if you have the guts, make up some urgent excuse to extricate yourself from the claws of impending hair capital punishment...remember to pay for the shampoo and conditioner, of course.
1.2 Insist on what you want, especially if you have every reason to believe you are right. I should have insisted on the haircut, especially since I had had the same haircut before and I believe it suited me.
1.3 Stylists are like surgeons. They ought not to perform liposuction when all you're in for is tonsilectomy. They should always be worthy of your trust.
1.4 A good conditioner always does wonders. My daily saviour comes in a tube of Palmolive Naturals Conditioner (the purple variant).
1.5 Never repeat the same mistake twice. Go for a different stylist next time or better yet, look for a different salon.
1.6 To assuage your anger, just remember that you'll learn to deal with your hair as the days go by.
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