Hair

Of course a girl’s hair is her crowning glory. On a typical day, she could have her tummy burst out of her blouse from a very big lunch and still feel beautiful as long as her hair is. That’s why they call it Bad Hair Day, not Bad Skin Day or Bad Breath Day, when someone wakes up one morning and looks at herself in the mirror and sees something wrong and feels very much uglaaay for the rest of the day, because it is the hair, depending on its condition, that affects the disposition of a person.

When I was a kid, my dad would sometimes steal away my precious time that I was supposed to use enjoying my childhood. He would make me sit in front of him and with a comb on his hand I always knew what he would do next. I hated those times because untangling that excruciating mess also known as my hair was worse than ten boosters or ear piercings (well, I was exaggerating but you got the idea).“You have to comb your hair all the time so that the natural oil will come out,” he used to tell me. When I look at my six year old self in the photos, I realize how beautiful my hair had really been. Oh gosh, if only I listened to my dad, I’d think to myself. But since I did not listen--I did not take care of my beautiful hair that not all girls my age had—my dad eventually gave up on me.

One day he took me to a beauty shop where I lost my pretty, pretty hair. My hair was cut so short that when I left the place, this one lady looked at me and I swear she must have thought I looked like a boy on girls’ clothes. I did not cry on our way home. I just kept looking at myself in the side mirror of our car thinking about how I’ve never seen anything so ugly in my life.

I lost my confidence because of that. During the years while I tried to grow back my hair, I couldn’t use all these pretty, colorful hair accessories like my friends did and I couldn’t join princess games and pretend to be a princess anymore because, as my friends have often pointed out, princesses always have long hair. I felt so left out. Oh, it was really terrible.

When my hair grew back, it no longer was the super straight, glossy hair that it used to be. It became very unruly and frizzy and sometimes on really terrible days, bushy. I swear it was like Hermione Granger’s hair—not Emma Watson’s in the movie but, really, the real Hermione Granger’s.

I wish I could hate my dad because of what he has done to my hair but the thing is that I realized that the unfortunate fate of my hair was because of my own doing. Had I listened to him and had been persistent enough to grab a hairbrush and use it when my hair was beginning to make tangles and all that, then my dad never would have decided to give me a lesson.

When I entered highschool, I decided that it was time to do something with my hair. I needed to get rid of the ugliness that I am each day forced to carry on top of my head everywhere I go. I wrote a 4-page letter to my mom explaining to her how sick I am of being ugly and that, well, I no longer will feel ugly if they do something about my hair. That’s when she decided to have my hair rebonded. I think my parents have had countless of arguments because of that decision my mom made, considering that that was a long time ago and this artificially straightening your hair method called rebonding was still just becoming popular because of one shampoo commercial and it cost at around Php 6,000, and also considering that I was in a really expensive school...well yeah, the point is that they had a lot of arguments. Right now I can totally say that I’ve been selfish that time but back then, I was really just desperate that I would do whatever it takes to get rid of my bushy hair. Anyway, my mom won and I had my hair rebonded, which I tell you, was really worth it. When I sported my new look in school, people were all suddenly complimenting me. Even my ultimate high school crush, who often made fun of me, became flattering.

It definitely brought back the confidence that I’ve lost for a very long time. My hair stayed artificially beautiful for a while. However, I’ve been told that rebonding my hair could cause severe damage and I did not believe it until, in time, it happened to me. Breakages and split ends appeared that I had to say goodbye to my 6,000-peso chemical-coated hair and cut it.

I’m just glad, though, that even if my hair never really turned back to its shape when I was six, at least it also never turned back to its shape when I was thirteen. My hair still sometimes is unruly but at least it never again is bushy.
To date, I must say I have done all kinds of things to my hair already. In college alone I think I’ve worn my hair straight, curly, short and long.

Every girl in this world probably has this one part of her body that she obsesses about. As for me, my hair—after all that we’ve been through—has now become that one obsession. Without a doubt, I’ve spent the most bucks on it, regularly giving it treatments and changing its style every now and then. Like for the recent months, it’s become a ritual for me not to leave the house without ironing my hair first. As in since I received the hair iron for my birthday, I’ve never left the house without using it—even if my destination was the beach or if I’d just be gone for a few minutes to return something I borrowed from a neighbor.

The obsession has probably paved way for my developing narcissistic habits. But again, let me just say this: I really do believe that no matter how much wrong things you see in the rest of your body, if your hair is looking its best, then everything would be alright. I can forget about my blemishes and huge thighs as long as my hair is tamed to perfection. Not many people get it, I know. They wouldn’t understand because they have not been in my shoes. They’ve had lives filled with memories that don’t include being laughed at for looking like a boy or Hermione Granger. Pretty hair has become my obsession—my frustration—because I’ve spent far too awful years not having one. And now I’m just making up for all those years I’ve lost.