The Filipino Haircut

At forty-four years of age I can say I have had haircuts all over the world.  While lately in the declining years of my hair follicles this has become more and more of a challenge, it is still a necessity of life.  I never want to be accused of  being the sad pathetic man trying to desperately cling to his last few three feet long strands.

On of the most terrifying haircuts I ever had was in a tiny barbershop in a small town in Egypt.  The barber executed his craft utilizing only a single straight edge razor blade.  During the process at any moment I could have become a flaccid ball of flesh, my life blood oozing out into a pool at on the floor.

Another inauguration into the world of the third world haircut came in the Philippines during my first visit.  The... I shouldn't call him a barber, perhaps stylist, was so gay I wondered if he would break into a rendition of a Barbara Streisand song as his scissors snipped and snapped.  I have never had a problem getting a haircut from gay guys.  I figure if anyone will know how to make me attractive it will be them.   I follow the same rule in life whenever a gay guy finds me attractive.  For some arrogantly macho males teaming with testosterone it gives them the willies, for me, I am just glad I make somebody happy.

During my most recent trip to the Philippines I ventured into a salon again to cut my golden locks.  Well in truth they are more like peach fuz.  I found a salon at a shopping mall and ventured inside.  Immediately I was greeted by a big board announcing the names of the stylists and their price list.  There was deffinately a hiarcy.  My immediate inclination was to go with Mr. Jay R.  I mean how bad could he be?  It wasn't like he was working with a forest on my head.  While I suggested to the receptionist that Mr. Jay R would be acceptable I was immediately assigned Mr. Edwin.  "Hmmmm..." premium price I thought.  A call went out over an intercom and I was shown to a stylist chair.  Immediately a young man came over and started to prep me.  I mistakenly addressed him as Mr. Edwin to which he blushed and said,

"Oh no, I am not Mr. Edwin, I am Eduardo"

Looking at his full black head of hair I said, "well, I want hair like you.  Hopefully Mr. Edwin can do something about that."  He then smiled and sowed me his receding hair line hidden under his hair.

I soon came to realize that Eduardo was simply  the same as a nurse prepping the patient before surgery.  Moments later a flamboyantly gay Filipino man with stylishly cut long straight hair emerged.  He looked like an arrogant gay artist at a gallery in New York.  He didn't say a word, simply picked up a shear and began to craft.  He didn't smile, he didn't frown.  From time to time he would pause, purse his lips and then cut some more.  A few short minutes passed and he lowered a razor, placed it on a table and left.  The surgeon was done.  Moments later the nurse returned.  He was now the closer and he shaved my neck and dusted the hair away.  He washed my fuzz and massaged my temples.   I don't know if he was gay but I will say, the temple massage felt great.

With my hair nearly bald I paid the receptionist and left the salon.  I wondered where Edwin had gone as he waited for his next call.  Did he have a secret stylist lair filled with stylist things?  Perhaps he was studying style magazines.  In reality, I think he was probably primping himself for his next victim.

In truth when you are a man in his mid forties getting what little hair he has left on his head cut there is not much anyone can do.  I must say however one thing about the Filipino stylist is that with so little to work with,  they certainly make me feel good.