Wig

I haven't seen my mother in months, so I was excited to meet her last Monday. The timing was perfect: it was a holiday, and no exams were in tow for the week.

It's weird how I get to miss my mother so much when I'm not with her, the painful longing only to be displaced by a deep-seated familiarity once I see her again. Distance may separate us, yes, but my mother will always be my mother.


After the project presentations, I rushed to the Mall of Asia to meet her and Auntie Cecil and Jojo. (My mother shares a clinic with them, and we practically grew up with their children. Nonoy, Auntie Cecil's second son, came in soon after.) We had a great time eating and walking around the mall. You see, it's always great to have my mother around because, well, financial management becomes less taxing.

As we were walking around the stores, my mother spotted a wig and seriously wanted to buy one. She's allergic to hair dye and black henna, so much so that she pops antihistamines before she goes to the parlor to have her hair done.

"Why wear a wig?" I asked. "Only old, bald people use that."

At that point, she was already trying different pieces on—a short-haired bobcat with prominent bangs, and a long, straight hair-do. "That way, I could always go to emergency social gatherings if I have to."

Auntie Cecil also tried some pieces on, and that segment of our mall tour turned out to be the funniest. It's unfortunate that I didn't get to take a snapshot of them, but they looked really cool. And hairy.

No, my mother didn't buy any wig, thankfully. I'm glad her reflection in the mirror put back some sense into her: those hair pieces only made her look older. They looked genuine on one angle, but at certain points, they looked fake.

Having her and the gang around made me miss home. Thank You, Lord, for that time of rest.