Virginity

“Today I’m gonna talk about something really important — my hair.” 

Everyone in Congress gave a collective gasp after Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde (Red, White, and Blonde) began her speech with this line.  Or something to that effect.

And I am, whether you like it or not, going to talk about my hair.  Or the lack of it.  Kidding. Not about the talk though.

I will not bring up recent memory and discuss how long my hair was 2 months ago. That will only lead to suicidal thoughts, given the casual way somebody messed around with it.  No sir, I will not be discussing that. I will however tell you about it’s peculiar origin.  What a boon it was in my earlier years and how it has slowly but surely transformed itself into the bane it is now. 

You see, I have what I like to refer to, despite my colleagues hysterical laughter, as a salt and pepper type of hair, but with a little more emphasis on the salt. Although I am, contrary to what most people would like to think, not yet in that age when I should already be having this kind of hair.  Fine! I got lots of white hair, clumps of it, if you must know.  Happy? Now on to its origins.

I started having white hairs when I was still an elementary student.  Back then, my teachers would say, within earshot of everyone, that it’s a sign of intelligence.  And as you know, elementary school children see their teachers as infallible, so I was, ahem, the most intelligent kid in my entire elementary school, judging by the number of white hairs I had. 

Later on as I learned a little bit about genetics and hereditary traits I began to notice that most of the men in our clan sport a lot of white hairs.  My younger brother even had more white hairs than myself, and he wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in our family, if you know what I mean.

I realized then that white hairs weren’t the most  precise barometer in determining a person’s intelligence. But a lot of my friends still believe that it is, and insists that I’m far advanced beyond my years.  Total tomfoolery I know but nevertheless, I did not disabuse them of that idea.  “As long as their beliefs are not hurting anybody, then let them be” is what I always say.

Then came The X-Men and Rouge.  How cool was that hair?! Put those white locks of Rouge’s all over her head and you’ll have a vague idea of how my hair looked like when that movie came out.  “At least I still have a full crop of hair, Bembol.” I tell my friend whose forehead is already invading his scalp, again, way ahead of his time.

One day, I took a break from work and went home to the province only to find my younger brother who’s already a college freshman dying his hair black.  He said he can no longer brush off his classmates’ taunts who have begun calling him Apo, a word, his friends would quickly say, that is totally unrelated to the fraternity.

“You should too” he said. 

“I would,” I said slumping on my old bed, eyeing him mischievously.  “But this is the only virginal part of my body left.”

It’s been a year since that  conversation.  And in just a single year, I’ve already had my share of strangers calling me kuya or tito and all those other bittersweet endearments used on folks of advanced age.  Everytime somebody calls me that, I remember that conversation and what my brother said.  Maybe it’s indeed time for me to dye my hair.

These days, each time I look at myself in the mirror, I run my hand through my white hairs and ask it this serious question;

“Is it indeed time that somebody pops your cherry?”