“I think I was gay in my past life,” I told my sister after watching the outlandishly gay movie, Die Beautiful, starring the very talented Paolo Ballesteros who, in real life, is famous for recreating makeup looks of famous celebrities.

“I think so, too!” she agreed, a little too strongly.

I was shookt. Like, WHOA, SETTLE DOWN!

Geez…

I didn’t really mean what I said but to put it in context, when I say “gay,” I don’t mean lesbian. I mean gay gay. You know, as in the dude version. Somewhere between Boy George and RuPaul.

My own husband reckons I’m a closeted drag queen. Secretly, I wish he would come out as well so we can both be fabulous together.

“F%ck off,” he said, when I told him I wouldn’t mind if he ever decides to change his sexual orientation so we can go op shopping like BFFs. Either he’s in complete denial or he simply doesn’t get it: If Joey Mead and her transgender husband made their unusual relationship work, I don’t see why we can’t. But then again, Ian King — now known as Angelina Mead King — is filthy rich so the couple would probably be burning money on Vuittons instead of getting caught dead shopping at, say, Vinnies.

Word vomit aside and going back to my movie, I realized I wanna be more out there. #YOLO the shit out of life and go out with full makeup on so if I ever drop dead, my mortuary beautician need only do retouches on my face, paying particular attention to my albino eyebrows and nose contour even though it’s a closed casket funeral.

Because, really, I doll myself up for myself. My sister finds it exasperating that I take a long time to get ready. (She exaggerates. It only takes me 10 minutes for an everyday look. 20 when I get carried away because seriously, how can you not when it’s so much fun? You know what they say… Time flies.)

So anyway, to kickstart my journey into gayness, I had my hair coloured yesterday. I thought about it for some time already, debating whether I could be bothered with the maintenance, knowing full well how expensive hair services can get in Australia and I’m not really game enough to risk it with a neophyte.

I came across balayage as a happy medium — less touch-ups, less damage. Less chances of getting any broke-r than I already am. I wanted a subtle look, leaning more towards lighter shades of brown and taking screenshot photos of gorgeous models sporting the look I crossed my fingers I could pull off.

Purple never crossed my mind. Purple was the first thing Pia, the colourist, saw as an untertone of the sample image I showed her.

“It’s sort of an ashy purple,” she explained. “It’s gonna look nice.”

At that point, I was getting a bit nervous. I mean, come on, purple?! Is it going to be that obvious? Am I gonna get fired at work?

She probably sensed my hesitation. She gently convinced me that no, it wouldn’t be very prominent as I have dark hair as base anyway.

To be honest, I don’t know what possessed me to still go for it, aside from the fact that I can be quite gullible. But deep inside, I was excited.

Let’s do this.

The first thing Pia did was to put some chemical I presumed was bleach to highlight areas of my head. Letting it do its work took some time so it was all pretty much a waiting game after that. A waiting game spent snacking and talking interspersed with moments of silence looking at our phones.

When the time was up and the foils were removed, her assistant, Marilyn, and I headed to the bathroom to wash my hair. Mind you, our bathroom is your typical Filipino bathroom which means we use a baldi and kabo — bucket and a dipper. Which means I had to sit on a little plastic stool bent over with my hair down while Marilyn applied shampoo to it before rinsing the suds off. My neck was dangerously close to snapping but that was of less concern to me than the fact that water was dripping down my face and threatening to erase my eyebrows.

I’m normally not one to take selfies but this was a momentous occasion and my sister was too lazy to take photos for me so I had to be a boss bitch and make things happen myself.

Next time, maybe I should chop my hair off to shoulder level. I actually kind of like that look on the left photo. Nothing says ‘slay’ than a woman with a short bob.

Anyhow, the purple and brown colours were applied after the initial wash/eyebrow dilemma. Leaving the color in to process wasn’t as long as the highlights but once again, it was another game of waiting.

And once again, for the second rinse, my eyebrows were endangered. Most of the left side was gone but by then I was done caring. This time around, water was dripping in copious amounts down my face I wouldn’t be surprised if Marilyn shampooed my face as well while she was at it.

As far as colouring is concerned, that was the last of it. Next up was the drying process. Based on the way Pia tugged through the tangles of my hair, I reckon that was a lot of effort on her part too.

Vain as I am, I’m not one to brush my hair. I like to think it gives me a casual beach hair look. Jeff thinks it’s more of a homeless kind of look.

‘I’m just trying to match my hair to your outfit,’ I’d say.

Touché.

When everything’s said and done and we’ve talked about everything and everyone on the grapevine, I actually like my new hair.

Very much.

But it’s all new and shiny at the moment so ask me again if my opinion still stands in a few weeks’ time.

*raven at 3 years old