My fairy godmother

“Did you just touch a van de graaff generator?” My former high school classmate, Christian, asked me that question during a remarkably sweltering afternoon in August 2011. I had just pampered myself with chamomile baby powder and combed my thick, “buhaghag” hair with a plastic comb when his thinly veiled remark caught me off-guard. I was about to give him a retort, but he instantly shifted his gaze to another wide-eyed girl, possibly his new prey, in the classroom. At that point, I could not imagine how he could just walk away after pointing out my flaws as if nothing happened.

Weeks after the incident, I had my buhaghag hair straightened. Honestly, I did not want to douse my hair with heat and hard-to-pronounce chemicals. I just wanted to appease my mother, Elsa. Before this, I would get up early every morning so that Mama could grudgingly braid my hair. We often used electric fans as makeshift blow dryers because typical hair blowers could not work on my damp hair. Most of the time, Mama adorned my hair with rainbow-colored ponytails and cute ribbons so it would look well-kept during school days.

“Gosh, your hair is so thick!” my hairdresser with blonde and enviable straight hair, Abby, exclaimed as she pulled my hair out of its elastic scrunchie for the first time. I began visiting her beauty salon every first Saturday of the month to have my regular hair trims and treatments.

Abby can do wonders with her delicate but skilled hands. She can transform my thick and coarse mane into healthy-looking hair. She is like my fairy godmother and the hair salon is my carriage. She even did my hair and makeup for the prom. But the regular appointments would turn into irregular ones when I moved away from home to study for university in 2015.

Luckily, my previously belligerent hair miraculously tamed on its own during my time at the University of the Philippines Baguio. Perhaps it was the cold and damp weather in the mountain city, or the liberal minds of my schoolmates, that did wonders; I was no longer tying my hair into buns and knotting it into braids. I stopped straightening my hair and started introducing organic-based products into my hair care routine. At that point, I learned that not only was accepting one’s flaws encouraged at university, embracing one’s imperfections was in fact the norm.

Over the years, Abby and I have talked about everything and nothing — from my somehow childish but deep-rooted insecurity at having buhaghag hair, to her dilemma as a trans woman having to use the “appropriate” restroom in public places, and recently, our COVID-19 vaccination experiences. She would also give me tips on managing my formerly buhaghag hair from time to time. As we bonded over the experiences of discrimination and struggles that we faced because of my unruly and rebellious hair and her gender identity, we found acceptance in each other’s company.

“I loved your long hair. Why did you suddenly cut it?” my cousin asked me recently after seeing my bob cut, which Abby styled so that I could look more professional now that I am in the corporate world. I smiled reassuringly as a response and told my cousin, “I just feel free in this style.”

Until now, I am grateful that my arduous journey of loving and embracing my buhaghag hair has led me to a lifelong friendship with Abby, my fairy godmother.

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Chelsea Joy B. Serezo, 23, is a journalist and a dog parent of four dogs. She has been a Young Blood reader since high school.

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