Ode to Josefa, my ‘stepmother,’ the neighborhood hairdresser

Everybody calls him Josefa, 52, in the neighborhood. His is a household name in Gulod because almost every resident of the barangay has sat upon his monobloc chair, faced his rectangular mirror fringed by dainty sakura-like flowers in orange and pink on lacquered wood. The mirror on the wall shared prominence with a laminated picture of Josefa with celebrity hairdresser Ricky Reyes, another prized possession of his. His stainless scissors have run through many people’s hair. Men and women, young and old have had a haircut styled by Josefa. After each customer’s haircut, he or she left his makeshift “parlor” feeling good, feeling handsome, feeling beautiful — all for P35.

He had a knack for making people feel at ease. People don’t mind the queue, waiting for their turn. Josefa opened shop as early as 6 a.m. and he would still be humming some Victor Wood songs by closing time, which was 6 p.m. He regaled everyone with his stories, funny stories, sometimes risqué tales. He was a raconteur. His self-deprecating humor endeared him to all. He poked fun at himself, pointing to his balding head, when a grumpy customer sat on his chair. They ended up as friends.

Last Friday morning, the neighborhood woke up to the news that Josefa was gone. It was a sad day. He was a good man. He was a gifted barber, a pleasant and friendly hairdresser. His presence was important to so many — who would cut their hair?

Sure, there are others who are also skilled at cutting hair in the neighborhood. But in matters that concern their crowning glory, Josefa’s demise is a big deal to those who only trusted his craft and his razor.

Many waited for a wake to be held at his almost 25-square-meter home but it was only last Sunday that a vigil was held. He died of natural causes but in the time of the pandemic, his remains were first kept in the freezer of the funeral home while awaiting the result of his RT-PCR. People prayed that he would test negative on the swab test so a wake could be held because they wanted to honor him with their presence, albeit with social distancing. He tested negative. That was already a consolation for those who loved him. It was important for them to pay Josefa their last respects, to say their final goodbye, the threat of the pandemic notwithstanding.

***

Jose Gimutao (his real name) was a stocky man. Joy resided on his round face. The lilt in his voice was the sound of his soul, reassuring despite his many wants, reducing his worries of how he would make both ends meet at the end of the day. He never complained. His face blushed and his hands profusely perspired when he would ask for help from a friend. Nobody said no to him. Josefa was a good friend.

“Imagine the world without friends,” he once told me in the vernacular. “It would be a lonely world.” He grew philosophical many times, especially when he had one shot too many of his favorite rum, his favorite pastime after he swept up the pile of hair on the floor of his shop after a long day.

Resilience marked his spirit because he managed to live alone after the death of his mother in 2014. He persevered in cutting hair because he wanted to relieve his septuagenarian mother from being a laundrywoman and nanny. He lost his father when he was two years old. His other siblings were also hard up. His world stopped for a while when his mother died. His customers who became his friends were there to cheer his grieving heart, even helping him gather all the empty cans of Ensure and stack them in a corner of their humble home. That day, he placed all his mother’s medicines and vitamins in a white plastic bag. He wiped clean his mother’s bamboo bed. He also wiped his tears. It was the day he buried his mother. Josefa was a loving son.

“Wala man sa akin ang yaman ng mundo, pakiwari ko mayaman na rin ako kasi minahal ako ng nanay ko. Mas doble ang yaman ko kasi naipakita ko rin na mahal ko siya dahil napagsilbihan ko siya, naalagaan ko siya. Iyon naman ang pinakamahalaga sa akin (I may not have the riches of the world but I already felt rich because I was loved by my mother. I felt richer when I was able to show my love for her by taking care of her. That’s what matters to me the most),” he said when I joined him in the cemetery one sunset to visit the gravesite of his mother.

His broad shoulders were symbolic of how broad his understanding of others was. No money? No problem. He understood their plight as he would cut his customers’ hair even if they did not have P35. He even gave discounts to many others! And to those he owed a debt of gratitude — people who loaned him money, which he returned up to the last centavo or people who gifted him with a new pair of scissors or razor — he would have a special haircut price for them. Josefa was a grateful man.

***

Josefa was my classmate in Grade 5 at Gulod Elementary School. Many times we would walk together to school because we were neighbors. He was the oldest in our class because he stopped schooling for four years. We were a tandem in our Filipino subject under Mrs. Vierneza, who required her students to present a short skit before the class began. The skit, which earned us additional points for our grades, was not related to our discussion; it was meant to be entertainment so we would not fall asleep in our 2 p.m. class.

For our skit, Josefa and I would mimic a scene from a movie where he played my stepmother. No rehearsals needed except for throwing lines. The “camera” would roll as the breeze from the rice field would enter the classroom through the mahogany-brown wooden jalousie windows. He would take his madrasta role seriously and he expected me to take my erring stepdaughter role seriously, too. Our classmates would be in stitches but he and I would be immersed in our being. At the end of our skit, my right cheek was already reddish from the slapping I got from him. Josefa was a good actor.

Long before the school year ended, he was nowhere in sight in the classroom. His absence was felt because he was a lightbulb, a livewire in the classroom. He dropped out from school. Yet again. He never went back. Life was hard and he helped put food on his family’s table by becoming a fisherman.

***

“Nag-ambisyon ako. Pag may gunting at suklay ka, ‘di ka magugutom. Umattend ako ng cosmetology seminar ni Ricky Reyes sa Calamba. Marunong pala akong mag-gupit. Pinag-praktisan ko ang mga kapit-bahay. Doon ako nagsimula (I had an ambition. If you have a pair of scissors and a comb, you will never go hungry. I attended a cosmetology seminar conducted by Ricky Reyes in Calamba. I discovered my knack for cutting hair. I honed my craft further by cutting the hair of the people in the neighborhood. That’s how I started),” he told me.

Josefa had a resolute will to better his life. He did not have much but he was contented. His happiness was anchored on his contentment. He only aspired to be happy with what he had and be generous to others despite having less. There was genuine gladness in his disposition.

That made Josefa, my “stepmother” and Gulod’s most famous hairdresser, a rich man.

(For your new beginnings, e-mail me at [email protected]. I’m also on Twitter @bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed weekend.)