Mad Hair Days

Those were the days. When big hair was the rule rather than the exception. When female crowns rose to dizzying heights they could have sent hairsprays to the endangered list. When teasing reigned supreme anywhere in the world, pushing past the confines of moviedom and catwalks, enslaving ordinary mortals like, well, my mom.


It was the 1960s, fresh out of the bouffant and beehive movements of the 50s and my mother, true blue fashionista that she was, made sure that her clothes—including her hair—always kept up with the times. The mountainous puff on top of her head was elevated enough to require maybe half a day of prep work. But my mother, the college instructress, must have been very talented with the teasing comb she fixed her tresses that way even during ordinary school days and still managed to come to class on time.


By the late 60s, my mother had not let go of her favorite comb. The towering hair was gone, replaced by a short bob. But the teasing did not stop.


Some decades later when she was into her 50s, my mother's crowning glory had been relegated to a wash-and-wear style—cropped, cut to reveal her natural curls and dyed a dark shade of brown typical of ladies of a certain age—signaling the close of a hair-raising era long gone.

Recycling: 70s Style

Long before the advent of global warming and environmentalism, recycling had always been fashionable in my family. No, it had nothing to do with saving the world we lived in, but everything to do with saving moolah at every opportunity.

My elder sister Pie was an angel in one of those Santacruzans in the town where I was born. She wore my mother's old dress that was reworked into a little girl's gown. Lovely.

The next year, Pie and I were Ave Marias in the same Santacruzan. Our gowns were rehashed from used frocks straight from my grandmother's ancient baul. I wasn't very sure if these were my Lola's, my aunts' or my mother's. But one thing was sure though, these were freaking old, probably as old as time itself. The sewing was taken care of by my two old maid aunts—yes, the same aunts from Children of the War—who were very good with the sewing machine. Our gowns were not bad at all, really. But to wear them when all other kids were decked in new ones at a time when vintage was still uncool! Okay, so we were different. (Together with us in top photo are our cousins Ron, now based in Canada, and Ate Margie, also known as Little.)

The following Santacruzan, I was again an Ave Maria. This time my mother bought applique flowers and beads and I was only too glad to finally see her buying new stuff for my new gown. But lo and behold! the new materials were for last year's outfit. My ever resourceful aunts were merely replacing the blue trimmings with red ones. That's the picture on the left. Take note, I was headless here but the pic still managed to find its way in the family album. Sayang daw e. The two photos on the right were taken when I was among the angels in another Church celebration a few months later. There were no major rehashings or reworkings for this occasion. My mother simply made me "re-wear" my old recycled gown.

Pie was a hila, like some sort of sagala, in one of those religious feasts in August and my mother asked an artist friend to create a gown for Pie and handpaint it. It actually turned out very nicely. Besides it was new—not previously owned, not previously worn—as in brand new. (That's the picture at the bottom.) Come December, Pie was chosen as class muse. What my mother did was to have the same friend take out the poncho and sew in a pair of the mandatory butterfly sleeves. (Top photo.) My mother was becoming creative.

Nah, not really creative. She used the same idea twice, right? Just look at the two pics of six-year old me above and see a re-application of the sew-in-butterfly-sleeves-to-old-gown technique. It's what ad people call two executions of the same concept. Maybe that's why I ended up in advertising...

Bags from the Past

My love affair with vintage bags began early in childhood when I was about five years old. My old maid aunt had a small treasure of some very beautiful bags in her closet and she would let me toy with them from time to time. I always found it fascinating to run my little fingers over them, especially the beaded ones. They were so lovely, even to my young, unknowing eyes. Most were evening bags and the one that I would hold in my hand again and again was a fully beaded golden clutch with yellow silky lining inside. Made in Japan, my aunt would say with a teeny-weeny hint of pride.


When I was around ten and living in the new house my parents built, I discovered my mother's bags from the 60's and 70's hidden in a big drawer under the bed she shared with my father. There were two different reversible beaded purses. There was a slim bag strewn with mid-sized, pastel-colored pearly beads. All very unique and eye-catching pieces. But the one that I coveted most was an interesting square-ish handbag of cowhide leather.


When I went to college, I asked my mother for one of the reversible purses. One side was of black and red beads on velvety black fabric and the other, of multi-colored beads on white. I also got one bag from another old maid aunt. It was a foldable handbag that doubled as a shopper with amber handles and material with prints of a charming old-world feel. I carried these cool stuff from another age to school and matched them with my mother's vintage blouses that I had her modista update into sleeveless tops. My bags, years older than me, were subjected to the wear and tear of collegiate life and, sadly, did not make it to my last year at university. I remember I also borrowed a small silver evening number with a long worn out but still graceful chain that belonged to a great aunt to use for some ball that I attended with a frat man friend. The loaned bag was never returned as I lost it somewhere moving from one apartment to another.


When I was in my early 20's, my mother took the bags of her youth from under her bed and gave them all to me. I was an underpaid copywriter and freebie vintage bags were highly appreciated and absolutely needed. My three sisters never showed any interest in old paraphernalia such as these — all made in Hong Kong according to their original owner — so I was very lucky to have them all to myself. The inside of the cowhide bag that I loved so much showed signs of falling apart but that was of no consequence to me. My old bags though were not spared from the harshness of modern times. I was a chain smoking ad person and I accidentally burned a small circle on my dear, dear cowhide. But I kept it anyway. The second of the two reversibles, of black beads on black and the other side of white and transparent beads also on black, suffered another fate. My sister borrowed it one time and loaded the poor thing with all her daily work essentials and my prized possession came back to me sagging, with lots of missing beads to make things worse. I carefully wrapped it in paper, sealed it in plastic and declared the last of the reversible purses officially retired.


Many years later when I was pregnant with Indie, my old maid aunt called me to her bedroom and showed me all the bags she kept hidden in the same spot all those years. She told me they were all mine to keep. Among them, a black patent clutch which I believe belonged to a great aunt, another one of white leather and yet another one with white beads all over. The golden beaded bag that I so adored as a little girl was also there, my all-time favorite now finally mine. I was at once moved and something told me my aunt wanted to say more but didn't. She passed away a month after. Of course, she was trying to say goodbye.


Though I still use them from time to time, I have carefully preserved my precious bags as I did with the retired reversible purse, hoping to pass them on to my daughter Indie the same way my mother and aunt passed them on to me like the family heirlooms that they were.