Why I Love-Hate my Neigborhood

 

       I was antique shopping in a market. I had espied an aqua paint-covered baul in the            middle of a stack of stuff on an upper shelf. The paint looked like it was splashed              on the baul. I asked the merchant to bring down. But first, he brought down what                looked like a box covered with hammered-out tin with a design intended for children. I        found it interesting but was anticipating the baul when ..... deafening music woke me          up! Grrrr!

Like the shifting of scenes in a movie, loud pop music intruded into my consciousness. Music from the loudspeakers of the high school in front of my house interrupted my beautiful dream... Hay, now I'll never know if I was able to buy an expensive antique item which I am cannot afford do in real life! 

I live in a street just off a busy main road but our street is almost always free of vehicular traffic. No engine sounds or horn blasts mar the silence. The sounds would normally come from children playing or calls from the magtataho or sorbetero, and other ambulant vendors plying their trade. Most schooldays, I am awakened either by a young voice singing over the sound system the national anthem or the strong, stern voice of the pricipal admonishing her students to do well what it is high school students are expected to do. In years past, the sound of the machines in the vocational school would punctuate the relative peace and quiet of the neighborhood.  

Drainage.., trees sidewalk, DPWH

Romancing my Id

   As I get older, it seems that getting friendly with my Id has become less dangerous. It is not as threatening to my Ego as it used to be.I've noticed that not only am I less fearful about speaking my mind, I've also allowed my mind to speak in not so wholesome ways.

     I've allowed wicked thoughts to slip through the sturdy and unyielding barriers of yesteryears. For example, when I see people with very unattractive physical features, I think about descriptions that are definitely politically incorrect. People who fail to meet my expectations are berated with sometimes unkind words (silently, of course!) And... ehem, when I see very attractive men of every age, I imagine possible dalliances (Joke lang, T!) Then there's my ever-increasing temptation to butt in when overhearing conversations of strangers. I just have this need to correct errors, offer answers to their questions, and oh, just say anything to "enrich" what is going on!

     Yesterday, I stunned people in a fastfood after I told a distracted food server to pay attention to me. Everyone turned to my direction when I said that and I actually did not even feel embarrassed. With my sweetest smile, I explained that because he was multi-tasking while taking my order, he was getting it all wrong. I apologized, of course, saying that I was a teacher and thus, used to telling young people what to do. I told him the lesson from this was "Focus, focus, focus!" Good thing the young chap never erased that smile on his face all throughout the little scene we had!

      So I thought, "Ayan na, talagang nag take-over na ang Id ko." But then again, Freud whispered to me that I might be wrong on that. That last incident? OMG, that was probably my Superego still saying who's Boss!

       And so it seems my dear Id, while you may have found a comfortable, little spot in my thoughts and imagination, it may still be a while before you see regular action in my life! 

Pogi!

Every time I decide to get a haircut, it seems to get shorter than the last time before. When I got this one, it was because I wanted a new look that would be fuss-free. I had gotten tired of my hair which had grown out without thought to my lack of time for careful grooming. (And to think that was only a couple of months ago!)

In my lifeline, I am at the point that I am learning to discard things which have been getting in the way of making things simpler for me. There is so, so much to do that I have only enough time to do what is more important. So between primping a less-than cooperative hairstyle and catching up on sleep or my reading, I will definitely choose the latter. I have gone beyond using my hair as a way to glorify my femininity. Because after 5 decades, people most certainly know my gender and the state of my sexuality even without the usual embellishments!

But I also realize that the length of my hair has been always a symbol of my need for asserting my independence. As a child, I was "forced" to have short hair. The female adults in my family reasoned that because I was grossly underweight, long hair would leech the nutrients from my already emaciated frame. (Okay, I exaggerate!) Every trip to the beauty parlor (as it was called then) to have a haircut or have my straight hair curled  was always a reminder of how powerless I was. When I reached adolescence, no force in the universe could coerce me to give in to my mother's and aunt's demands for the pixie or page-boy hair-dos. I let my hair grow long with a vengeance! By the time I graduated from high school, I think I must have had waist-length hair. What joy!

In the ensuing years, I had complete control of the length and style of my hair. No more pleasing my mother who wanted it short. No more pleasing my father who wanted it long. But for most part of my adult years, I kept pretty much to a length that I could tie up into a ponytail. Shoulder-length was the bravest I could go.

I also hated my straight and limp hair. So a yearly ritual was perming its ends so that my lifeless hair would have some "body". I think that it was only in my late 30s that  I decided that enough is enough. No more perming and shorter than shoulder-length hair was permissible. Not only had I embaced that straight hair was okay but I also discovered a side of me that I never knew existed. Both required courage to accept and this realization marked the beginning of a life-changing journey.

Many times over the years, every time there is an emotional upheaval in my life, I have cut my hair short. Maybe to punish myself in the biblical sense ( as in wearing sackcloth and putting ash on my face. Ang layo yata!) or better, to spite those who prefer to have my hair a certain length. Maybe cutting is more radical and definite compared to just washing out people or problems out of my hair? Maybe also to make me feel and look better after dealing with a devastating event? I don't know!
 
So I have come full circle to where I was in my early years. The length of my hair is no longer a symbol of subjugation that it was but is now an assertion of my individuality and my independence of spirit. I will not promise to stop using it also to define my quarrels with the world. But for now, even if I look pogi I feel beautiful and chic as well. And that, at this very moment, is all that matters!