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.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
The Logbook
October 2008
You know what a logbook is. It’s where you put your name, your signature, and the time you came in and went out of a certain place. When I was in college, we kept one in the office of our student publication. But ours was never just a logbook.
We weren’t contented with just writing our names. We felt like we also had to write down our thoughts, our feelings, and our mundane activities. We weren’t contented with using a black ballpen, so we also used red ballpens (perhaps more frequently than black), pentel pens, highlighters, colored chalks, crayons, and just about anything that leaves mark on paper. We weren’t contented with just writing. We drew cartoons, diagrams, miniature Nazca lines, and many other figures no one could discern, not even the ones who made them. We were a discontented bunch, and we all poured our creative (and destructive?) energies into the hapless logbook.
Whenever we went inside the office, we would always look for the logbook. Sometimes, we had to wait—or queue up—for our turn, since the logbook had a whole barangay to serve. Well, the paper had twenty staff or so only and not even half wrote in the logbook regularly, but that was how waiting felt like.
Whenever I went inside the office, the first thing I would usually ask was, “Where’s the logbook?” I didn’t notice that this had become a habit, until recently, when I dropped by the place. After chatting with the new staff for a while, I found myself asking Leni, the present editor in chief, “Where’s the logbook?”
From a dusty pile in a corner, I unearthed the logbooks of my time. One was a thin blue book and the other was a thick green book. I leafed through them and was transported back to the not-so-distant past.
Let me claim that we were nothing short of witty. I found something to laugh at in almost every page. But what made the entries truly fun to read were the comments. When you poured your hearts out in the logbook, you better be prepared, for moments later your entry would be surrounded by tiny arrows pointing to irreverent remarks. Cases in point:
I wish I can say that the logbook tightened our bond and made us inseparable. That ending seems possible only in movies. Sure, we regarded each other as family, but not the kind that kneels together. Perhaps each of us was simply too opinionated or restless—or weird. Not even the logbook—something we all loved with equal intensity—was able to stop us from drifting apart. We now rarely see each other, and when we do, we sometimes feel like strangers.
The boring essays, the lewd sketches (we made a liberal interpretation of the green book’s color), the sarcastic jokes—they all attest to the different and sometimes conflicting personalities we had. Mikoy hated the world and expressed it. I hated the world and suppressed it. Emo kid Ariel felt he was carrying the wait of the world. Good girl Leni always took the road less traveled. Ryan was confused which road to take. Royal was trying to take several roads all at once.
Through the logbook, we all tried to exorcise our demons, both real and imagined. It might have failed to keep us together, but individually it helped us survive. It served as our writing teacher, our shock absorber, and our most loyal listener. It was never just a logbook.
You know what a logbook is. It’s where you put your name, your signature, and the time you came in and went out of a certain place. When I was in college, we kept one in the office of our student publication. But ours was never just a logbook.
We weren’t contented with just writing our names. We felt like we also had to write down our thoughts, our feelings, and our mundane activities. We weren’t contented with using a black ballpen, so we also used red ballpens (perhaps more frequently than black), pentel pens, highlighters, colored chalks, crayons, and just about anything that leaves mark on paper. We weren’t contented with just writing. We drew cartoons, diagrams, miniature Nazca lines, and many other figures no one could discern, not even the ones who made them. We were a discontented bunch, and we all poured our creative (and destructive?) energies into the hapless logbook.
Whenever we went inside the office, we would always look for the logbook. Sometimes, we had to wait—or queue up—for our turn, since the logbook had a whole barangay to serve. Well, the paper had twenty staff or so only and not even half wrote in the logbook regularly, but that was how waiting felt like.
Whenever I went inside the office, the first thing I would usually ask was, “Where’s the logbook?” I didn’t notice that this had become a habit, until recently, when I dropped by the place. After chatting with the new staff for a while, I found myself asking Leni, the present editor in chief, “Where’s the logbook?”
From a dusty pile in a corner, I unearthed the logbooks of my time. One was a thin blue book and the other was a thick green book. I leafed through them and was transported back to the not-so-distant past.
Let me claim that we were nothing short of witty. I found something to laugh at in almost every page. But what made the entries truly fun to read were the comments. When you poured your hearts out in the logbook, you better be prepared, for moments later your entry would be surrounded by tiny arrows pointing to irreverent remarks. Cases in point:
Me: When love has to come, it will.
Ariel: When love doesn’t want to come, it won’t.
Royal: When come has to love, will it? Come has love to when, it will.
Ariel: They all have sense, don’t they? If they don’t, then they have.
Ariel: Yesterday, I did something funny. I can’t believe I’ve done it. I’m a moron.Call that sweetly rude, or rudely sweet. We spoke in a language only the inhabitants of our dingy office could understand (and probably all the other student writers out there). The words we used might sound harsh to most people, but it was just our unique way of saying, “We’re here, we’re listening, we care.” We just didn’t want to sound like Sharon or Judy Ann. Here’s some more:
Me: No, don’t ever think that. It’s unhealthy. You’re not a moron. You’re an idiot.
Mikoy: The office never felt more empty.
Ariel: My life never felt more empty . . . and boring.
Me: My life is boring . . . but not empty.
Mikoy: My legs, my legs. My damn legs are turning into pasta. Somebody must have given me a beating while I was asleep.
Ariel: My brain, my brain. My brain is turning into sauce. Somebody must do what I must do so I can sleep.
Me: My lungs, my lungs. My damn lungs are turning into pizza. Somebody must have turned on the electric fan while I was asleep.
Ryan: My heart, my heart. My heart is turning into bacon. Somebody must have chopped it while I was daydreaming.
Leni: I’ve just finished one of my most difficult exams ever. I totally feel like an idiot. Anyway, there’s no need to stay sad. It’s over.Most of the editors and writers, as Mikoy described it, “did their damage” to the logbook, but it was the six of us—him, Ariel, Leni, Royal, Ryan, and me—who were its most dedicated scribblers. We bared our souls in it. Mikoy was pithy—he would say his piece in a sentence or two—while the five of us seemed to be competing for a longest-essay award. Mine in particular would reach up to four pages. Mikoy, however, occupied more space and seemed to say more than the rest of us combined. Only from him could these words come:
Me: I’ve just missed one of my easiest exams ever. I totally feel like an idiot. Anyway, there’s no need to stay sad (because I’m not sad). It’s not yet over.
I lack money, not enemies.The idea of keeping a logbook and turning it into a community journal did not originate from our batch. We just inherited it from our predecessors. I must say, however, that it was during our time that the logbook chronicles had its most colorful chapters, figuratively and literally.
[This place] is composed of two people: weird people and Leni.
I wish I can say that the logbook tightened our bond and made us inseparable. That ending seems possible only in movies. Sure, we regarded each other as family, but not the kind that kneels together. Perhaps each of us was simply too opinionated or restless—or weird. Not even the logbook—something we all loved with equal intensity—was able to stop us from drifting apart. We now rarely see each other, and when we do, we sometimes feel like strangers.
The boring essays, the lewd sketches (we made a liberal interpretation of the green book’s color), the sarcastic jokes—they all attest to the different and sometimes conflicting personalities we had. Mikoy hated the world and expressed it. I hated the world and suppressed it. Emo kid Ariel felt he was carrying the wait of the world. Good girl Leni always took the road less traveled. Ryan was confused which road to take. Royal was trying to take several roads all at once.
Through the logbook, we all tried to exorcise our demons, both real and imagined. It might have failed to keep us together, but individually it helped us survive. It served as our writing teacher, our shock absorber, and our most loyal listener. It was never just a logbook.
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