Hair-say

“Why did you cut your hair like that?!” My aunt disapprovingly looks at my hairdo. “You look boyish!
People will think you’re a tomboy!”

I looked away from her. I expected that not many people will agree with my decision to do my hair in the
style I prefer, but there was a slight ache in my core. It still felt heavy to be questioned and even judge me for
wanting something and doing it.

Before I was eighteen, I always kept my hair long. My dear mother always insisted to keep it that way. I
have a long, thick hair that just looks and feels like maize fibers when they were let loose. My hair is untamable!
Not only that, it is cumbersome to maintain. It doesn’t help that I am lazy. I hate combing my hair and I do not
especially like keeping it long. But I never cut it; I was afraid I might look weird and stupid and would end up being
teased. But when I turned eighteen, I wanted to refresh my look; I wanted to explore short hairstyles and see what
would suit me best. So I had it cut.

Many people have different “rituals” to express themselves and their sense of liberty. Some would get
tattoos or change their fashion statement or make that life-changing decision to move out of their parents’ house, but
for me, it was cutting my hair. It was a revolution, an escape from my fears, and a sign that I was ready to face the
world and its giving of lemons.

Also, I wanted to just quit having to comb my hair and carry hair bands and ask myself as to what style I
want to make it into for the day. I wanted for jeepney and public utility vehicle riding experience to be less of a
burden for me and for the people I am with.

I looked at my aunt, then. She was watching a Dove commercial on the television, the one where it says,
“My hair, my say!”

I frowned, but then I stood and told her, “I want it this way, Tita.”

She rolled her eyes. I went away from her and her cheezy soap operas. I went to the sari-sari store near our
house.

“Hey! You’ve changed your hairstyle!” The storekeeper, Tita Brenda, greeted. “Well, don’t you look
pretty? It suits you!”

I stared at her. For a moment I lost my trail of thoughts. When the praise sank in, I gave her a wide smile,
the first genuine one of that day.

“Thanks, ‘Ta! I just want to buy Mountain Dew. The one in bottles.”

When I received the softdrink already in plastic, I sucked on the straw, getting that tingly, saccharine taste
of the drink into my mouth. My Aunt can keep her opinion. Also, this tastes so good! Totally worth fifteen pesos. I
thought of my hair and another smile forms on my lips. I went and bought myself a pack of Oreos and munched on
them while I sipped the Mountain Dew. A gal can celebrate her little victories, I thought happily.

I like my hair the way it is now: messy but short and yes, manageable. Boys can wear their hair long; why
can’t girls keep their hair short? Also, the storekeeper said I look pretty in it. As I ate and drank the sweet delights, I
shrugged. I like my hairdo. After all, this is my hair— My hair, my say!