Can we say Pat Benatar?

I have resolved-firmly-not to get another haircut while I am here in Asia. It just keeps getting shorter! I am beginning to think that “just a trim” translates into “cut off as much as you would like.” As I have been vain about my hair in years past, perhaps this is my payback.

I nearly cried when I was getting my hair cut in the Philippines. Since it had gotten so shaggy and I was nearly a month overdue for a cut, I decided to get a trim. Ha!!! Shirley took me to the place she usually goes. I looked at the hair dresser’s hair; tolerable. I tried to psyche myself out, “This won’t be so bad.” The hairdresser didn’t use scissors or thinning shears. She used layered straight edged razors fixed into something like a box cutter. That should have been my first clue. She grazed the straight edge tool against a length of hair and down fell a hefty chunk of hair. It was okay I thought, just thinning it out. But then, before I knew it, it was all gone. Gone. Finito. Naked. The tears were itching to be released. I blinked, furiously. And blinked some more. I was able to more or less hold it together as long as I didn’t look in the mirror.

Despite my wretched, now-I-look-like-a-lesbian haircut, I still have received some male attention (I think the cup size helps). When I told Stef some men had hit on me over here in the Philippines, she asked if it was before or after the haircut. After. That was her way of ascertaining that the haircut wasn’t as bad as I said it was. I don’t think she is taking into consideration that the men who were hitting on me where mostly toothless old men who have not seen any potentially new endeavors since the baby goats were running around in the springtime.

It amazes me how even though I am on the other side of the world, the same tactics are used for catching the eye of a female. That come hither look really doesn’t change. The winking of an eye is the same. Sending a messenger over to express interest from a young man across the room still happens over here, too. Many mountain men were posturing themselves as merely practicing their English in order to talk to me. It’s funny how their limited English included the infamous three words, “I love you.” I managed to get away with only one or maybe two marriage proposals.

A widower forestry professor impressed me the most, even though he was probably four inches shorter than me. Despite the height deficit, Mel had all his teeth. Bonus. I’m guessing that he was fifty-ish. Intelligent and funny. Not swilling gin at the rate some of the younger men were. We were talking about my mud adventures and he said that I sank in the mud because I was big.

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to belie the sarcasm that wanted to seep through. Why does stating the obvious have to be so hurtful sometimes?

He quickly tried to amend his error, “I’m sorry; how would I say that in English without being offensive?” he queried in earnest.

“You wouldn’t say it, you just wouldn’t mention it.” I should have gone into a lesson on how being blunt or honest is often impolite.

He thought about this but didn’t buy it. There had to be a way to say what he meant. He finally came up with “You’re big but you’re sexy.”

I guess that’s better than saying you’re sexy but you’re big. Men are funny.