I'm not really that fond of beauty parlors. I have long resigned myself to the fact that I have a bad hair life,. And since I fell asleep while having a [zigzag] perm and woke up with an ugly burn on my forehead, I've been making sure that under no circumstances should I ever, ever, ever allow myself to be lulled to sleep by:
a] the steady drone of the hair dryer
b] the sound of scissors nipping and clipping away
c] the hushed--and sometimes not-so-hushed--voices providing a running commentary on showbiz, on politics, on fashion, on Manny Pacquaio and Ara Mina, on Kokey and on the latest batch of PBB housemates.
[Of course, I have also learned to stay away from parlors with "Shoppe" "Hauz" or "Beauticare" attached to their names.] In any case, my hair was again flying off in different directions. More than the usual, anyway, and so, armed with a volumeful of sudoku, I dropped by the parlor for the usual trim. As it turned out, there were four or five people waiting for Norma's ministrations. So I waited, waited, waited and eavesdropped.
Here's what I learned so far:
That a simple comment [Wow, nice chinelas] can lead to Australia and who knows where. [Haveanas to, P1,200. Imagine tsinelas lang P1,200 na. I use this when I'm off to conferences... My husband was in a conference in Australia, and when he asked me what I wanted as pasalubong ... yada, yada,yada...]
That the slim young-looking manicurista is actually a mother of ten and that she has no intention of going on the pill.
That if you look disinterested, they won't ask peddle you beauty products, or logganisa, or a house and lot.
That the tiny, portable idiot box commands much more attention that anything--and that the parloristas can really get carried away by all the drama on Pinoy Big Brother.
And that, yes, the network wars is very, very real. Tired of all the gushing over PBB [that is a reality show???], I was going to let on that I'm really Kapuso [sort of]. Good thing I didn't.
After all, I couldn't risk another bad haircut.