Parlor games

I have a confession to make: For the past months I’ve been going to the salon every other week. A haircut, hot oil, foot scrub, another hot oil. But this is not the point of the story. The point is that every time I am at this parlor (what an old word) on Congressional Avenue in Quezon City, I pick up a magazine and the first article I read seems to be talking to me or at least meant to be passed to somebody who would find it useful.

A friend was abroad and thirsty for news back home. I promised I would keep a diary and write down everything that had been happening while she was away. She had been talking about quitting her corporate job and going into a new career but she was afraid of what it would do to her life. She loved what she was doing, but it wasn’t filling the void inside her. Every doubt was anchored on fear – would she miss her old job, would she enjoy the new one, would she be good in another profession, would the pay be worth abandoning what she loved doing, was stability really what mattered?

One Sunday at the salon – early morning to beat the we-have-a-wedding-to-attend-later crowd – I pick up an old issue of Oprah. There is an article about women who made life-changing decisions. They came to the point when they realized that though they were making good money, it wasn’t enough to remove those 3 a.m. nightmares. Was this the life they were supposed to have? One quit a high-power job and became a teacher; one abandoned her exciting writing career and bought a house by the beach. That was when they started taking control of their lives. Mostly, they changed their jobs. One of them took it as a sign when she was staying in a strange hotel room and the morning paper came with an ad that said, "Courage is the power to let go of familiar things." She quit her job, left the man she had been living with and bought a beach house so she could be nearer nature and away from the city. The man that had been good to her said, "Nobody turns his life outside down just so he could watch the sunset." He probably wouldn’t, but she would — and she did.

I read the short testimony over and over again so I won’t forget the line "Courage is the power to let go of familiar things" and I can pass it on to my friend. What strikes me about this is the word power. Courage is power. It isn’t just strength, it is power. You can control it. You can acquire it. You can use it.

I pass this line to my friend when she arrives. She just smiles and says it was awfully thoughtful of me. It doesn’t hit her like I thought it would.

Another Sunday morning. A haircut this time. I pick an Esquire magazine with Deborah Messinger on the cover and read it through my bangs while my hair is being prepped to be mutilated, not beyond recognition please, I warn the "senior hairdresser" – that’s his title, it says so right on his calling card – just half an inch. He makes a face. Chickenshit.

There is an article about a man who’s a certified womanizer. He’s been having affairs all through his married life— with an editor, a lawyer, a waitress, a flight attendant. More than 40 affairs and several loved ones. But he can’t leave his wife. He doesn’t want to leave his wife and her kids. He is filled with guilt feelings but he can’t stop.

Another friend had just called several days before. She is in love with a man who is not available. The love object is not married but is in a serious relationship. He seems interested in her. It could be her imagination, it could be for real. The days she doesn’t see him are excruciatingly painful, like having a limb chopped off, and when the distance stretches into a week, she feels like she’s been run over by a steamroller, every bone in her body crushed and nothing matters but this aching feeling that’s been distracting her. An exaggeration perhaps, but who’s to say?

I tell her, years from now when you are old and he is married, you will bump into each other at the mall and you will see him with another woman and you will ask yourself, what if he did love me back then, what if I didn’t let him get away? The love object becomes the one that got away and it will gnaw at you for years. And all you will be able to think about is, what if, what if, what if?

Last Sunday morning at the salon. With my hair filled with protein conditioner under the steamer, I am reading an article with the title "Your Face or Your Ass?" It’s about women who lose the sparkle in their eyes once they lose the fat in their bottom, women who think there is no such thing as being too thin. I think with guilt that I’d go for the small ass and joyless eyes any day.

A college friend sends a text message. Good morning, it says, with a picture of a bunny rabbit. I text back that I would be at the mall later, can we finally have that coffee? She is leaving for abroad the following week and me on the next. We agree on a place and time. Two hours before the appointed time, she cancels. Her son is starting school the next day, she has a million and one errands to run. We have to meet the next day, she says.

She’s happier now, that’s the first thing she tells me. It does show on her face, a bright lipsticked smile, highlighted hair slicked back in a neat bunch. She is successful, she is rich, she is beautiful. She’s gained a little weight and nobody’s complaining except her. The issue is not the weight. It’s how she’s dealt with the blows that came from all directions in the past four years. How she coped with losing her husband to another woman even before they all lost him under violent circumstances a year later.

I am sitting opposite her – a Diet Coke, watermelon juice and fried mozzarella between us – staring at her and thinking, where did she get this strength? It certainly wasn’t taught to us in journalism school. Not while we were sitting in a statistics class which we knew we would flunk at the beginning of the term because the teacher was a harridan and she couldn’t care less that we would be held back another semester.

Then I realize my friend has always had strength: When she was working through college, when she chose a career that she knew would make her rich but not satisfy some of her desires. That was the tradeoff, and she took it. It was as simple as that. These days, it doesn’t seem like a tradeoff simply because she’s enjoying what she’s doing. She had it in her to know that she wouldn’t regret this decision. You can’t be stronger than that.

An old friend living up north sends a text message on a weekday. I get it on my way to work. After years of silence, he asks, how are you? You can’t compress years of news in 8210’s 160 characters. I reply, life’s been good. He asks back, but has it been fair? Cute.

He wants to know what I’ve been up to. His sister’s birthday is coming up, can I attend the party? I can’t and he is leaving again.

The same Sunday. He calls while I am at the salon. His business is doing great but he is not very happy. He feels restless. He feels like settling abroad or coming back to Manila. He doesn’t know what’s missing in his life.

I tell him I can’t help him — the Esquires and Oprahs are taken and I am left with Glamour magazines. What? Nothing, I say, just a private joke between me and my hairdresser. He doesn’t laugh.

It can’t be anything but a good beginning to know you’re not satisfied with your life, I tell him. Maybe it’s a phase, maybe there’s a part of you that feels it’s time to satisfy this need now. I remember what one great writer told me in an interview, that she was meant to do different things in her life. Having done literary writing, it was time to do another thing and another and another.

What is he interested in? He doesn’t know. I tell him my hair’s about to be rinsed, can he call back in five minutes? He doesn’t call back.

I hope he finally figures it out.

At last, I am getting my blow-dry in peace.

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For comments, e-mail me at tanyalara@yahoo.com. Mindless observations and insincere flattery also welcome.