Yesterday, I decided to have a long-needed haircut. At the same time, I wanted to try this barbershop near our house. There’s nothing really outstanding about the place, it’s just that it’s the biggest and seems to be the most complete barbershop in the neighborhood. At P100 per haircut, it should be.

So I entered the shop and the receptionist motioned for me to sit on the empty barber’s chair. I only had to wait one minute before the barber she assigned to me approached and asked what cut I would prefer.

“Just barber’s cut,” I said.

The barber prepped me up starting with wrapping a clean white towel around my neck. Then when he reached for the pair of scissors, I saw that his whole right arm was heavily tattooed.

Images of prisoners, of riots, of gangsters quickly flashed before my eyes.

I asked myself why do I always stereotype people based on just superficial things, like tattoos. Just because a guy has a tattoo, does it mean he’s all bad news?

I knew that I had to get that wrong thinking out of my system, especially since the barber turned out to be one of the most polite and, quite surprisingly, gentle barbers I ever encountered.

It’s Holy Week again. Everybody’s trying their best to be, well, holy.

I overheard this quick talk between two bus drivers:

Driver 1: Pre! May Pabasa ba ulit sa inyo?

Driver2: Meron.

Driver1: Magpapa-inom ka ba?

Driver2: Syempre.

Driver1: Sige, pupunta ako.

Similarly, I overheard this conversation between two male officemates:

Guy1: Holy Week na naman. Alam mo na, bawal ang ‘karne’. Hehehe. Kaya bawal tumabi kay misis.

Guy2: Pero ang seafood pwede?

Guy1: Pwede.

Guy2: O! Di ba ang talaba eh seafood?

Guy1: Oo nga ‘no? Yahoo! Teka, hoy, bakit bigla ka atang nalungkot dyan?

Guy2: Kasi tsong, yung talaba ni misis, may red tide eh.

It’s Holy Week again. I think it’s time that I stop eavesdropping. It’s really not a good habit.

I visited my girlfriend in Cebu over the weekend. Her company sent her there for a month’s stint and after more than two weeks of not seeing her, I couldn’t take it anymore so I went for a visit.

I had a great time there only we stayed mostly in her hotel room and only went out to eat.

When it was time for me to go home, Nhil offered to escort me to the airport. We hailed a cab then held hands on-route. I told her how much I would miss her, again.

Then as if on cue, the radio started playing: “Every time you go away you take a piece of me with you…”

What supposed to be a sad parting was suddenly filled with laughter.

And if that wasn’t enough, as the cab entered the Domestic terminal, R. Kelly started to shout: “I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky…”

I kissed her goodbye. When I sat down on the plane, for no reason at all, my mind started singing:

“Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I’m coming home to you.”

I stopped. Not only because singing the last line was a bit scary, but I realized the band (Lynyrd Skynyrd) was almost completely wiped out in a plane crash.

I have this theory, a long-standing one, which I have established the day I was made our class’ Sgt.-At-Arms back in Grade 6.

Together with my fellow Sgt.-At-Arms, we were tasked to monitor our classmates as they line up and march every morning during flag ceremony. And with every such occasion I have formed my bias on my fellowmen. With every line, with every march, with every step I have categorized people between the obedient and the disagreeable, the well-behaved and the unruly, the civilized and the barbarians.

All because of their ability (or lack thereof) to keep to the right.

Too many times along the steps of MRT have I been stopped and stalled just because people are climbing on the wrong side of the stairs. It’s the same on the sidewalks where I have been bumped by shoulders and breasts alike for them not occupying their side of the road.

I say one can best judge the civility of a populace by its ability to keep to the right.

It is one of the most basic rules we have and if people can’t follow it, just imagine how they handle more complicated principles.

Last Sunday, while I was on the bus on my way to Nhil’s house I texted her, “Can we talk tonight? There’s something I have to tell you.”

She texted back her reply, something like “You know whenever you say ‘Let’s talk’ I get this funny feeling that something bad is going to happen.”

When I arrived at their home, I found her sitting in their sofa with a pout on her face.

“Ngayon mo na sabihin kung ano man ang gusto mong sabihin.”

I said I prefered to do it later, after we hear mass. But she was persistent.

“No. Ngayon na. Feeling ko talaga may masamang mangyayari eh,” she said.

I sat down beside her and she wouldn’t stop nagging me.

“Ano nga ‘yung gusto mong sabihin? Huwag na mamaya. Now na.”

She wouldn’t stop pushing me to talk and since I was never good with spoken words, I gave in to her demand.

I took her left hand, embraced it as she kept saying, “Ano nga? Ano bang gusto mong sabihin?”.

Then I gently slipped on her finger a silver ring.

“I love you,” I whispered.

And just like that, she stopped. And I found myself wiping away her tears.