Nice haircut, Karlo. You can project better with that oh-so-fresh look. You prove to be more than just the head-turner that you are: you can make your admirers’ heads literally spin 180 degrees-wise. I have witnessed those entranced people, myself too, earnestly follow your path in CAS lobby till the necks abnormally whirl to their backs, imitating the ghost’s orbiting head in The Poltergeist. Your latest crown statement has eventually caused me to decide to sport a new hairdo myself (I don’t expect stirring a considerably sensible public to manifest a 180-degree-neck-rotation peculiarity, though).
However, when my classmates finally set their worried sights on my recently fashioned top, they play criminal investigators and put me under close interrogation, bombarding my pained ears with inquiries sufficient to drive me nuts. They ask me, “May nakatampuhan ka siguro, ano?”, “Are you unable to sleep the whole night through?”, “Gusto mo na bang matulad kay Samson?” etc. and the ultimate of all is that which can incite a loser beauty pageant contestant to seal permanently her prober’s tactless mouth: “ARE YOU FRUSTRATED?” to which I give an alarmed reply, “NO! NO! NO!”
I don’t promptly decode people’s purpose of associating new hairdo with frustration; must be the Biblical tradition of shearing one’s hair and throwing ashes in the air when tragedy strikes. I am by all aspect human, but it does not follow that when sulking in depression, I will eradicate anyone’s empty existence right before his wide-open eyes. I only demand for thinned scalp, period. I am devoid of negative psychological tendencies, suicidal whatsoever, so I will have my tress run through by scissors without the barber fearing that I will bang his head over and over against the shop’s walls after his session with me.
Speaking of barbers, how lucrative therefore their business will be if beyond one’s new look a repressed voice is crying, “I admit it: I’m frustrated to the nth power!” From time to time, the hairdresser’s stall will be flocked by thwarted beings wanting their fine hairs trimmed to fluctuating lengths depending on the degree of anguish, e.g., dropped a subject—an inch cut; flunked the course—three inches shorter; abandoned by love partner—totally shaved head; so on and so forth. And so before the economic necessity for more hairdressers’ salons blows up because of everyday snare and frustration incidents, I will be opening my own to strike it early at the competition level. What now, Karlo, an army cut?
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