My Semi-Annual Haircut

It's that time of year again—the moment to visit the barber!

My hair has become a hindrance to my hearing. I've been struggling to lip-read conversations with others. It was high time for a haircut. Besides, the disheveled look is no longer in style, so...

As someone who tends to get overly attached to their hair, getting it cut is a significant event for me. I've grown so accustomed to it that the idea of waking up with neatly groomed hair the next day feels surreal. I also get quite anxious before the actual haircutting session. Thoughts about how I will look or whether I'll survive the ordeal keep racing through my mind.

Getting a haircut, like everything else, involves making choices. First, you need to decide where you'll go for your haircut. Due to the prevailing machismo mentality here in the Philippines, guys are expected to visit barbershops. However, my past experiences have taught me that barbers usually only know how to do two types of hairstyles: semi-kalbo (almost bald) and the classic barber's cut (though not all barbers are limited to these two styles, unfortunately, I stumbled upon a couple of them during my earlier stages of transformation, leaving a lasting mark on my memory). Then there are salons or parlors, where women and transvestites take care of your hair. Their chosen names often range from sweets to fruits grown in Baguio (e.g., Chocolate, Strawberry). Don't get me wrong, some of the best hairstylists are often gay, and I would gladly let them work their magic on my hair. Hmm... that didn't come out right.

Another option would be the family salons. These cater to everyone and offer affordable prices with decent haircuts. So, I decided to visit the local family salon within my budget. I arrived around three o'clock when there were no other customers. Getting a haircut is the most vulnerable moment for one's vanity. I didn't want anyone to see me half-finished and looking ridiculous, except for the stylist, of course.

The stylist asked if I wanted a shampoo before the haircut. I declined since I had already shampooed my hair before coming (besides, I didn't know which brand they used). The next question was about the desired hairstyle. It was a tough question. How did I want my hair to look for the next few months until it grew long again? It struck me that I still had a tub of Gatsby wax at home, which I had been meaning to use for a while. That's it! I wanted a hairstyle that required styling product application for it to be accepted by modern society.

The stylist went to work, skillfully using the tools conveniently hanging from her belt bag. While cutting my hair, she engaged in small talk. I responded with grunts since (1) I obviously couldn't nod or shake my head, (2) I had no idea what she was talking about, and (3) she just kept on talking incessantly. Couldn't she just focus on her job and stay quiet?! Of course, I couldn't say anything. She held a razor-sharp scissor close to my neck, and I'm not that reckless.

After the haircut, which wasn't exactly what I had envisioned but would do nevertheless, the next challenge was payment. Should I give a tip to the hairstylist or not? It's one of those things my dad taught me—never forget to tip people who provide you with a service, especially if they did a good job. It boosts their self-esteem, helps with their daily needs, and encourages even better service upon your return. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a somewhat dissatisfied expression. When would I return to this establishment? Probably in a few months or maybe never. I paid for the haircut and hurriedly left. Sorry, Dad.