Nice to Meet You

Another (and an older)  curly-haired alien version of me.
(My mom really got into perming my hair after the first try)

“Come closer,” she beckoned me, her perky voice failing to conceal a slight edge, her big bright smile not reaching her eyes. Warning bells sounded off in my head but I could not say no, nor run away. I was rooted in my spot, paralyzed.

“Oh come on,” she said soothingly. I looked at my neighbor Ilana, she with the green eyes and the beautiful thick, wavy blond hair that I envied. She nodded at me and smiled, reassuring me. I looked at my cousin Leah, who nodded as well. As their blond and black heads bobbed in unison, I felt comforted. They both had their turns and they were all right. I bravely took a few steps forward until I was face to face with my summoner, Arlene. Alternately revered and reviled by the children in our neighborhood, the proclaimed bully of the block was not wearing her trademark scowl today, nor were her dark eyes their usual stormy sea. Today she was different. Friendly. Today she smiled and called us pretty. Today, by some miracle, she had wanted to spend some time with us, and give us a makeover.

Arlene turned me around and touched my dark hair, tied neatly in a ponytail by my sweet mother who was waiting for me at home. “Your hair is so pretty,” Arlene said, her fingers smoothing my hair. “And today, I’ll make it even more beautiful.” I held my breath as I heard a snipping sound. One snip to the right, then one snip to the left. “Now, you’re perfect,” she said. I exhaled. It was quick and painless. I crossed back to my friends.   

She looked at the three of us and beamed. “Now you three are the prettiest little girls on the block,” she said. She and her friend marched away as we turned to each other. My cousin smiled. I felt anxious as I touched my hair. To my relief, my ponytail was still intact. My hair felt exactly the same.  I broke into a smile. We hugged each other giddily, laughing out our fear, our anxiety, our glee. We then proceeded to play, skip rope, and make chalk drawings on the sidewalk with our other friends, all the while exchanging secret, conspiratorial smiles with one another. We had just been given the secret stamp of approval by the big girl, by the most important person on the block. We felt grown up, important, and special. Finally, it was sunset and time for all of us, even us freshly ‘anointed’ ones, to go home.

I was getting ready to take a bath, and my mother sat me down and loosened my ponytail. She gave a loud gasp as she removed my hair tie and my ponytail, a full five to six inches of hair, floated and fell like soft dark feathers on the floor. “Lesley Anna,” she exclaimed. “What happened to your hair?” I stared at the shiny clumps of hair in confusion. I stammered and tried to explain to her that Arlene just wanted to see it, and put a few touches to it to make it nicer. My explanations were overlapped by a scream from upstairs, which sounded a lot like Tita Susan, Leah’s mom, soon followed by a loud, bloodcurdling scream next door. It was Ilana’s mother. I miserably thought of Ilana’s thick golden waves which reached past her shoulders, more beautiful than that of any doll or corn-haired fairytale princess, and in that moment, felt sorrier for her than I did myself.


Our three mothers joined forces and marched to Arlene’s house at the end of the block, where they gave Arlene’s mother a piece of their mind. But the damage had been done. Arlene had (brilliantly) snipped at the parts of our hair held by our respective hair ties, and so we did not notice what she had done till these were taken out.

My parents took me to a salon to fix my hair. What was left of my mane was ragged and uneven, so the stylist had no choice but to cut it close to my ears. After the haircut I took one look at myself and burst into tears. “I look like a boy,” I sobbed. My parents tried to console me, saying that I looked fine. I refused to believe them. My parents took me down escalator upon escalator as I wept. It did not help that my older brother Ramon said, “Lesley looks like a boy.” My father pulled him away and tried to distract him. He shouted, “I don’t get it, I was just telling the truth. She really looks like a boy!”

My sobs grew louder. I felt that at six years old, my life was over. My father was overcome with pity for me and decided to turn back and use our grocery money for the week to get my hair curled. And so, at the age of six, I experienced my first perm.

I remember when the thick helmet was lifted and the plastic rollers were loosened. There, I beheld an alien version of myself, with soft dark tendrils curling around my forehead and the sides of my face. It was a Lesley from another dimension, a Lesley I had never known existed. She looked both familiar and strange, me and not me at the same time. My father expected me to be cheered. I felt disoriented and confused. And yet for his sake, I managed a shaky smile. I was shell shocked as we left the salon then the mall, dazed as we rode the car, utterly speechless and discombobulated as we reached home.

I tried to avoid looking at the new Lesley, but caught glimpses of the alien on the microwave door, on windows, on the glass of the sliding door. I would shake my head and glance away, still unable to convince my stubborn mind and heart that what was reflected was indeed me. It took a few weeks, but as the tight curls loosened and my hair slightly grew, my heart and mind were ready to welcome the alien, the stranger. I woke up early one morning when everyone was asleep, tiptoed into the bathroom, and locked the door.  I took a deep breath and looked in the mirror, facing my reflection calmly. I tilted my head from side to side. I went closer till the tip of my nose touched the cool glass, and stepped away. My reflected matched me, move for move. Yes, she was me. I was the alien. And strangely enough, I felt my mind and heart stretch as I accepted that I could be different, that I could change. And I was glad.

For us women, a hair style change is never just about the hair. More often than not, we either celebrate or cope with major life events by going to the salon and changing our look. It has become a rite of passage of sorts. We graduate from college and start a new job, we change our hair.  We break up with someone, we change our hair. We give birth, we change our hair. And these are never little things – but small, brave steps that show that we are ready to be different, ready to be new, ready to be alien versions of ourselves, open and willing to be something we have never been before.

Right now, my hair is permed and is colored a light auburn. I have talked about doing this for years, so much so that friends and colleagues have teased me, “Hoooo, lagi mong sinasabi yan, di mo naman ginagawa.” (You always say you’ll do it, but you don’t) Yes, I experienced the rebelliousness of an old stubborn Lesley that whispered to me as I walked into the salon, “You shouldn’t change” and “It isn’t nice” or “You won’t look good.” Still I continued, reassuring myself that this was good and that I had nothing to lose. And yes, I still felt the same shock as I beheld the new me, another alien version of Lesley, perhaps from asteroid B-612 or thereabouts.

And yet, I am pleased with my accomplishment and aside from genuinely liking how it looks, I know deep down that this change signifies the big leaps I dream of making in my life and career in the next year. And as I face you with my new look, do not ask me “Whyyyyyy?” with round saucer eyes and a disbelieving smile. Don’t tell me that you don’t like it and that you prefer my natural dark brown, straight-as-a-rod hair either. Honesty can come later. In that moment, I ask you to smile at my bold and daring, at my audacity to be different and new. Say that you’ve noticed, and that you’re happy and pleased to meet the new me J


This is entry dedicated to my father. From spur-of-the-moment perms to Debbie Gibson tickets, you always seemed to know what the young girlish heart yearned for and needed.