Long On Stories, Short On The Sides

Right. This is it. The final heavy-shopping weekend before we declare that our new house is finally settled, 10 weeks after we actually moved in. Most people would have made that declaration right after they had set up the toaster and put their shirts away in the closet. But being the sort of OC nut-job that I am, for me it's not over until every last piece is in place.

One of the biggest milestones for me when I move to a new place is finding a place where I can get a haircut. When I moved from the Philippines to Singapore, for 2 years I would continue to get my haircuts from my regular hairdresser during my then-frequent business trips to Manila. But then Salai disappeared and I had to go through the trauma of starting a new relationship.

Yes, I have just confessed to a disturbing level of vanity. And I am sufficiently un-deluded to recognize that it is misplaced vanity. But as I explained to a colleague while asking her to recommend a salon, going to a bad hairdresser is more risky for me than going to a bad doctor. I can recover a lot faster from the flu than I can grow back my hair from a bad haircut. And I'm going to have a beating heart in my chest a lot longer than I will have hair on my head. It's that curse of the 'Y' chromosome.

It's a well-kept secret, but the reason that men have mistreated women since the dawn of history is not because we are power-mad, insecure or just plain jerky. It's because when we discovered male pattern baldness we decided to throw the mother of all tantrums and we simply did not know when to stop.

So anyway, once the colleague had understood how seriously I was taking the issue of my first haircut in the New World, she canvassed her boyfriend and those of her friends and then directed me to Joel.

I don't get it. Why is it that all male hairdressers act gay even if they are not? Are the genes that are responsible for nimble fingers also the ones that make your voice lilty and lispy? Or is it a sort of career expectation, the way all investment bankers must have sharp sideburns and weak chins, or all boxers must have pock-marked faces unless they are named Miguel? At any rate, right after telling me about his weddding plans, Joel saved me from a faux pas by telling me about his fiancee. (As opposed to his fiance.)

It all turned out well, though. I got a very respectable haircut, Joel had his chat with the nice young man from Asia, and while my wallet left lighter than I expected it would, I know I can compensate by going to a back-alley quack the next time I come down with a virus.