After a mad rush from work to the mall, braving angry winds and rains and the sick Ortigas traffic jam, I arrived at Vivere Salon in Robinson’s Galleria with my hair dripping with rainwater. Francis, my brother’s barber for years, and mine for 2 years, greeted me at the door.
As usual, i didn’t escape those wrinkled brows as he inspected my 6-month old rebonded hair the way a doctor would check on his patients and shoot questions at them about their routines. I haven’t been faithful in shampooing every other day. I do it mostly everyday. (Come on, I live in a real polluted world.) But I promised Francis that if my hair falls out one day due to neglect, I’ll keep him out of it.
I had my hair cut short and a pedicure. Historically-speaking, long hair does not become me and Francis agrees with me for a simple reason like I’m too lazy to manage one. The weight of this mop, including body fat accumulating in wrong locations, drags my overall personality down and adds up years to my present age. And just recently, I have been called “mommy” by a taxi driver. Neth told me it could be a sign that I should really be serious at getting pretty and healthy. Mesothelioma cancer and its other dreaded relatives is something I wouldn’t want to acquire these days.
