GIGI GOES GAGA

HAIRSTORY: THE ENDLESS WAR

All my life I've wrestled with my hair. Countless hairdressers, come to think of it, have, too. If you ask anyone who knew me through high school, you'll hear stories about how my hair was so heavy, thick, coarse, and dry that it had a (sad) life of its own, perpetually powerless against teenage hormones and Manila's tropical climate. It couldn't be conquered by huge tubs of conditioner, and woe to anyone who tried to tame it with a blowdryer.

When my friend's sister, fresh out of cosmetology school in the U.K., claimed she would be the Hillary and Norgay to the Mt. Everest on top of my head, I knew she was merely being naive. She was the first to cut expertly plotted layers into my hopeless mop, and although she was able to decrease its heft and bulk somewhat my tresses remained defiant. I suspect the reason she was never really friendly with me afterward was because I remained a constant nagging reminder of her limitations.

Boys teased me mercilessly but girls were somewhat kinder (I suspect they were merely mocking me behind my back). Some of my more helpful friends instructed me to brush my hair a hundred times every night and taught me how to create a more flattened effect with headbands and barrettes. I often forgot to do the former (who has the time?) and the latter's effect was like trying to make a curvy bombshell look like a flapper girl by sticking her into a girdle: eventually the flesh is going to have to pop out somewhere -- and it ain't pretty.

Then one day, just when I'd given up completely, my hair decided to cease its rebellion. It simply went straight. Throughout college I was able to style my hair almost any way I wished; I had an asymmetrical cut, a layered bob, a rocker shag, and during a brief but horribly foolish period in the '80s, I even got a perm. Somehow the irony of making myself look like a cauliflower after suffering the indignity of looking like a mushroom for years was completely lost on me. Still, I continued to enjoy my freedom throughout my 20s and early 30s. I'd stroll into my hairdresser's chair, sit down and say, "Do with it what you will."

And just as sudden as my hair became my friend, it decided to resume its fight. I fought back harder -- with $200 blowdryers, a battalion of boar's hair brushes, and enough hair products to fully stock a beauty supply store. Silicone became my friend. "What's going on?" I cried out to Chassi, who had tamed the beast for nearly a decade. "Hormones, most likely," she replied gently but matter-of-factly. "And gray hairs are kinky. You have quite a bit more now and it's changed your hair's texture."

I was done for. Age had done me in.

I decided to cooperate, resigned to my inevitable defeat. I grew my hair long so the weight would stretch it out, had layers cut back in, and ceased my carefree ways. Because my biceps were now a bit too weary from wielding tools and appliances, I gave them a break on weekends with a professional blowout as they continued their punishing workout for the rest of the work week.

And then a couple of months ago while I was in Manila, I decided I needed a haircut. After a thoroughly relaxing shampoo, the stylist's assistant sat me down in front of the mirror and combed my wet strands. "Ang nipis pala ng buhok mo! (Your hair is so thin!)," he exclaimed, perhaps a bit too artlessly. And in one fell swoop he destroyed every belief I've ever had about my hair -- and a little bit, too, of my self-esteem.

Now I want the rebellious hair of my youth back. Apparently age couldn't force it into submission and so it simply stripped all its bluster away. But I'm fighting back once more, this time with Biotin and possibly even with Viviscal. Bring on the mushroom cloud -- I'll win this one yet.

 

 

STRANGER BY THE DAY

I saw him in 1999, right after our divorce was finalized. I can't remember the last time I saw him before that morning because he wasn't around the day when I finally moved out of the home we once shared. I'll never forget that bright afternoon the year before: I'd locked the door behind me, with Stacy walking ahead, to lead the movers through the 20-mile drive to my new apartment building. Before getting into my car I paused and turned around to take a long, sweeping glance at the house I knew I'd never see again. I can still see it now in my mind today, and I sometimes wonder if the new owners have made any changes to all the many changes I'd made when it became mine.

So on that day when I saw him for the first time as my ex-husband, he came up with me to the ninth floor to drop off a few things I'd left behind and to see where and how I now lived. Before we finally parted ways, I leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and he moved away from me quickly and said stiffly in a low voice, "No, that's too weird for me."

I never saw him again.

Until, I think, last year. Not too long before I moved out of yet another home and began another life, incidentally. If you haven't noticed, I said I think I saw him. To this day I have no idea if the man I saw at the Chinese restaurant far away from where we once both lived was my ex-husband. The one I was with for eight years, married for five. And although the time we've already spent apart is more than the years we were together, it makes absolutely no sense to me that I would not recognize someone I was once married to.

I saw him about two tables away from where I was seated. I stared ahead, frozen in some combination of dread and astonishment, my gaze locked firmly on his face. His hairline was further back from his forehead than I'd remembered, but his jaw was still as strong and determined. His eyes crinkled at the sides underneath the glasses he wore and his entire body shook awkwardly when he laughed, just like a stiff board would, the way he would have if he were my ex. He even dressed the same way, in the kind of clothes I used to buy for him. For a second I thought he saw me, and I would have ducked if I weren't too shocked to move. It wouldn't have mattered though; if he were really my ex he wouldn't have been able to see my face from where he was, even with his glasses on.

I wanted to open my mouth and call his name, just to see if he'd look my way. But I couldn't -- I still don't know quite why, but I couldn't get the words out. If it were him then what would we both do? Wave and say hello, ask what the other was doing there, laugh, and then politely say goodbye? If I had to ask him who he was, wouldn't he be offended that I couldn't recognize someone I once built a life with? What if he didn't recognize me? What if we acknowledged each other and then had to pretend now that we didn't spend all those years pretending we'd never been married to the other?

In the end, I stood up from my chair and slipped away quietly, hoping he wouldn't see me. To be face-to-face with him again -- no, it would have been too weird for me that day, too.

RUB ME LONG TIME

First, a disclaimer: I am not a prude.

But when it comes to folks with non-romantic intimate access to my ladybits, only females are allowed. My primary doctor, gynecologist, acupuncturist, masseuse: all women. My dentist, EENT doctor, allergist, hairdresser: all men. I hope I've made the distinction clear.

I can't explain why I'm this way, especially when I frown on sexism of any kind. I suspect it all began when I got into a car accident in my early 20s, and the creepy (male) doctor who examined me for whiplash and subsquent back pain decided to give me an impromptu breast exam as well, with no other female in the room. I was completely stunned, petrified even, and the words that were screaming in my brain ("Is that really necessary? My boobs don't hurt! ") wouldn't come out of my mouth. My fears were further solidified when, many years later, my then-boyfriend attended a bachelor party and met a drunk gynecologist who boasted that he took his time while examining any attractive patient so that he could spend more time "down there."

So imagine my distress when I walked into my local Massage Envy during my birthday last week and realized that I hadn't requested a female therapist when I booked my two-hour appointment. But my profile clearly specifies my preference, I repeatedly recited like a silent mantra. I'd never experienced a mix-up at the Southern California location I used to visit, besides. I thought of asking the receptionist about whom I was booked with anyway -- but decided to shut up when two male therapists stepped up to the desk.

One of them was tall, tanned, blond, athletic-looking -- gorgeous, with a killer smile to boot. Oh, please, not him, I thought, in a way that sounded almost like a prayer. See, another of my quirks is that I don't like beautiful male strangers touching me. It's like whenever I'm in the presence of a male stripper, I look away so they know not to go near me. Of course that never works. I liken this to being with cute cats and adorable children. Because crazy folks keep trying to grab and squeeze them, they gravitate to those who simply ignore they're there. And so it goes; oiled and perfumed naked men inevitably gyrate their way straight to me, slither and sashay mere centimeters away, trying to get my attention when all I want is for them to keep their hands off me.

The other guy, though, was a shorter, stockier version of John Oates. Together they resembled one of my favorite 20th-century pop duos, but even that thought offered me no relief. "Gigi?" he looked at me and smiled. Oh, say it isn't so.

My desire to up and run out the door was so strong, the only thing that kept me walking toward our assigned therapy room instead was that I didn't want to hurt his feelings (okay, and pay a last-minute cancellation fee, too). So I undressed, got on the table, lay face down, and opened up myself to this new experience. Pretending he was female didn't hurt either.

Two hours later it was over and, thankfully, I didn't feel traumatized the least bit. It wasn't bad, actually, but I just couldn't relax enough to sleep. Maybe sometime in the future it won't matter, but today I made sure I'd booked a female masseuse. Besides her strange choice for small talk (natural disasters and climate change in Washington state) when I'd specifically mentioned I wanted nothing else but stress relief and sleep, I didn't have to do anything else but shut down for business. And when she heard my first gentle snore she stopped talking, finally.

That's another thing about me. Whenever I lie down and close my eyes, all I want to do -- whether I'm being massaged, tweezed, waxed, examined, probed, even getting my teeth cleaned -- is think of nothing and sleep. I'm certain even all my ladybits feel the same way.