One Year

Amoy pomada.
I turned to glance casually at the direction where the overpowering smell of hair pomade was coming from. I expected to see a male senior citizen dressed to the nines, with an attache case, his hair looking like it was licked by a cow-- stereotyped users of the green, greasy gel of a bygone age.

I didn't see that. Instead it was a man in his 50s, in jeans, a tee and sneakers, hair slick with pomade.

And that smell. Unmistakable grease on hair.

Anyhow, interestingly, that made me remember Dad. Aboard the jeep cruising along Ayala Avenue, I took a trip back in time and once again I was a little girl watching him get ready for work. I saw him putting on after-shave cologne and then, styling his then thinning hair; not with pomade, but with Brylcreem. He used to scoop a little of the hairdressing cream with his fingers, spread some on his hair and comb and style his locks meticulously with his favorite brown and beige comb (the kind that sells for about 5 pesos in Baclaran). That, every single morning. Despite earning monickers from me -- Shaggy (for sha-gilid lang ang buhok); Pepito (Pipito lang ang buhok) and Andy (Andidito lang ang buhok). Dad was never pikon. He would just press his lips together in a suppressed smile, his eyes twinkling with the pride of having passed on mischief and sense of humor to his daughter. :)

Dad was a dapper dresser. While his clothes weren't designer labels or expensive, they were always neat and clean. When he had the time dad used to iron his clothes himself, being very particular about the lines on his pants and the arch of his collars. And he wasn't one who would leave the house with less than gleaming shoes.

Dad always smelled good. He religiously took a shower before bed, each time powdering himself and spraying on some after shave. He smelled so good that one time, when my mom was infanticipating, he got kicked out of bed and was sent out of the room because he was mabaho. :)

There was one time dad was really mabaho-- also the one time he got home so drunk and barely made it through the door. When mom found him slumped and snoring by the sofa, she sent out for a dozen bottles of beer, opened them up and drizzled dad with the contents. Dad was a stinky, icky Pete the morning after and promised HIMSELF never to drink so much ever again.

There's just so much I remember about dad, and it's sad that he's no longer around to laugh with me over these silly memories. On Sunday it's been a year since he's passed, yet I still wish it had just been a bad dream and one day I'd hear him calling my name again.

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Why AnneThology?

Anthology means a collection of poems, short stories, plays, songs, or excerpts. My name is Anne, and this blog contains a collection of my thoughts, musings and writings (poems, short stories), some songs I like, plus a sprinkling of excerpts I find worth sharing --hence, AnneThology.

Did you know?

Anthology derives from the Greek word ἀνθολογία (anthologia; literally “flower-gathering”) for garland — or bouquet of flowers — which was the title of the earliest surviving anthology, assembled by Meleager of Gadara.

Look, what I have -- these are all for you.