Nevergirl's

I’ve always had brown hair. It was alright when I was a child, but as an adult, I mind a’plenty the kind of brown my hair turns into on its own. Maybe if it were the same brown as the girls’ (or that of bmw z3 custom floor mats), I could live with it—but no. It’s a very light brown, the kind that makes it seem like I’d spent an entire summer living on a boat in the water.

Two weeks ago, I had my hair dyed black. I had the stylist chop off my shoulder-length hair, too, and give me blunt bangs. I had grand delusions about the style. I imagined it going perfectly well with my Joe Rocket Phoenix. Today, I woke up to *gasp* brown, gold-streaked hair. What happened? I happened. The past two weekends have been spent at the beach: swimming all day, sleeping during siesta, and telling stories by a bonfire at night. It’s that time of the year when the waves are at their biggest, and fattest, and even though I cannot swim to save myself, there is great joy in throwing myself into the waves, and being carried onto the next trough. Ever rode on the crest of a wave? It’s the nicest, happiest thing ever—you can forget the world you have to go back to after; there are no ifs, buts, and what-ifs. There’s just you. And the sea. And a giant wave sweeping you away.

The only downside to all the time I’ve been spending outdoors is that my freckles have grown bigger and darker, and my newly raven hair now looks more washed out than a has-been child star. The sun and sea took its toll on my hair, and now my hair isn’t just brown again; it’s brown and streaked!

I’ll ditch bottle dyes for now, methinks. There’s no point getting my hair darkened because I won’t be giving up my weekends at the beach. The master’s bedroom in the little strip of beach the family owns now has air-conditioning. I take this as a sign from the universe that I am meant to spend my weekends there, sipping coconut juice while swaying from a duyan. In the old days, I hated sleeping in Magsaysay because the nights get humid sometimes. Now, all I need is an Internet connection, and I can happily spend a month there with Nang Elena, the old caretaker with limbs as stout as her heart.

This is how the island looks at sunset. Sometimes, I hold my breath, marveling over how beautiful everything looks, and how—if I hold the camera just so—I can freeze the moment and pocket it, like a dear memory. Or a tiny painting.