Hair

September 2006



Trust the uni~verse and respekt your hair.
—Bob Marley

Forget not that the earth likes to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.
—Kahlil Gibran

Most of my dormmates are newcomers, and they are all first year students. For months now, I’ve been wondering if they and I have a generation gap. When it comes to vanity, hair grooming in particular, I seem to have been born an Age earlier than they were.

Of the ten of us occupying the ground floor (the girls are in the second floor), I’m the only one whose hair remains black and who does not use gel. The hairs of the other guys have “highlights” or stiffened by half a bottle of gel, or both. Last year, my old dormmates did not seem to be so particular with their mane.

This barrio boy is experiencing some culture shock. It’s one thing to read about metrosexuals. It’s another to share roof, hallway, and mirror with them.

It feels weird to hear the other guys talk about whitening creams with as much enthusiasm as when they share about motorcycles and “chicks.” They advise each other in which tight-fitting, signature shirt they look best. They borrow each other’s fanciful sneakers. (So far, no one has dared borrow my cheap loafers.) The other day, they tried to bleach one guy's hair. I could not suppress a grin looking at his head wrapped in a KCC plastic bag.

Though my dormmates seem superficial, I noticed one good thing that comes along with their liking for things that, decades ago, were considered “for women only.” By being not so concerned about projecting a macho image, they do not stereotype the sexes. They have respect for women. They collect porn videos in their phones, all right, but they never talked about women as mere sex objects. They treat the girls in the second floor of the dorm as friends, if not family members. Theirs is masculinity anchored not on egotism but on sheer confidence of their sexuality.

The guys with gel and highlights tolerate, if not respect, anyone’s gender preference. We have a transvestite dormmate who prefers being called Luningning. They occasionally make harsh jokes to him, of course, but he's not talked about behind his back and labeled a sinner or any other prejudiced term. The others sometimes borrow his wig to set up a "white lady" inside the room of whomever they want to scare during brownouts. They asked him to be their makeup artist when we had the search for the Mr. and Ms. of our dorm during acquaintance party. And, yes, they promptly call him Luningning. In another time or another place, the gay boy would be treated as the poor clown, or be mauled.

I’m beginning to think that “vanity” and “vaingloriousness” are not the proper words to describe the way my dormmates care and adorn their hairs. It’s just the norm of “their time”—the time, which I would like to think as the prelude to the age of a more open-minded and egalitarian society.

Meanwhile, the fashionista guys must have influenced me. I now have my share of vanity. I’ve grown my hair. It used to be one-inch long and uncombed for almost six years, but now in its length it’s pricking my eyes.

I’ve been grooming my hair with the aid of a small brown comb, which would be borrowed by two or three guys every morning. I don't know why they can't buy a P5 comb when they can afford expensive goos for their faces. The comb has raked through practically all kinds of hair: dry hair and hair sticky with gel, straight hair and parlor-straightened hair, black hair and fake blond hair, hair of an Ilonggo and hair of an Ilocano, hair of a Christian and hair of a Muslim.

The worst antidote to the hair fever, however, is about to come. Next week, our conservative school will no longer allow male students to wear our hair long. I suspect the primary purpose of the hair policy is to keep gays from wearing their hair at shoulder-length. Talk about open-minded and egalitarian society.

What bothers my dormmates and I is that the rule says our hair must not reach the collar of our shirts. We’re planning to skirt the rule by removing the collar of our shirts. But I guess I need not do that for, thank God, I’ve got a long neck. For the mean time, what I should do is wash my comb regularly, before we share lice and have a bad hair day every day.