The Year of Issues

You all know that by turning twenty-two, one does not merely age a year. Twenty-two is not an ordinary number; it is the fast-track button to senior citizenship and nursing homes. I myself am experiencing the first few symptoms of senility. I crave sleep more than usual, I experience chest pains, I hear a loud crack on my knee joint every time I do an about-face. And to top it all off, excuse the pun, I think I am developing a bald spot.

My favorite stylist was the first to notice it. Or at any rate, the first with guts enough to mention it. Really, I used to have the thickest mop of hair. When I was a kid, it had to be trimmed every two weeks. And now Miss Jenny is saying she can’t clip more than she already has, because my scalp was showing in places. Because my hair was--what was the term she used? ah, yes--thinning. Now I dislike mirrors even more. I guess it’s partly karmic: David Letterman’s Comb-Over of the Night used to have me in stitches. Suddenly, not so funny. And I’m not even over my other issues: my unusually wide forehead, my constant craving for approval, etc.

2005 is indeed the year of issues and people with lots of issues. There are the friends who came out. The labmates and their disputes with the boss/other labmates. The parents who ignored each other for a while. The cousin who got pregnant. The friend who went to the provinces and had an ideological reawakening. The blockmates who were fed up with each other. Of course, there’s that friend-of-a-friend who is just brimming with self-esteem hang-ups. And these are just the issues I deem publishable.

I don’t really know what I’m complaining about. I’m not particularly unhappy, just a bit stressed. I’m loveless but I know people who love me. It’s probably just my whiny mode kicking in. I know I’m lucky, I’ve got to put life in perspective. Question: when you’re crossing the street, or happen to be at the mall, don’t you think about this: that each person you see is leading a unique life? That there are countless ways of living out one lifetime? It makes me feel like one inconsequential speck. And still you find a handful of people who can relate to you and understand you. At the end, it’s a comforting thought.

The other day I smothered my hair--what’s left of it--with extra virgin coconut oil, the latest magic liquid. On the advice of my mom, and ignoring the skepticism science has taught me. I smelled like biko for a good three hours, but when I shampooed it off, surprise! No fallen strands.

Faith, John Fadul. A little faith.