Cat Face

Talk about timing, perfect timing.

The week I caved in to have my facial warts burned, was exactly the same week I got invited to watch Cats at the Cultural Center of the Philippines.

No buts, ifs, or maybes. I said, “yes,” never mind if my face was covered with pock marks, telltale signs of vanity. I found myself pining to be in theater again after a long time—pining to have my face masked with cat make-up.

“You have too many warts on your face,” my friends would chide me for years. “It doesn't take long to have them removed. You'll have scabs all over but that would only last a week.”

It wasn't easy to convince me. Why should I pay to suffer. I had heard that wart removals are a painful process. Then one day, a young friend who specializes in facial thingies said, “Tita, I am leaving for Dubai two days from now. I could come to your house now and get rid of your warts.”

Whatever made me say yes is beyond me. I had been able to hold off for ages, but I guess she caught me at my weakest hour (the same hour that comes and goes when I pass by Cara Mia's espresso ice-cream).

It was not root-canal pain, but painful in a unique way. And then looking into the mirror one hour and 100 tiny electrocutions later, I howled. I looked like a million ants decided to bite my face and reside there!

I'll hide from the world for a week, I resolved. But the phone rang and the invitation (the cost is prohibitive otherwise) to Cats made me dump all resolves into the trash can. I do have weak knees when it comes to Broadway plays.

I had watched Cats on Broadway years ago, and I wanted to see how it evolved, considering the wide spectrum of technology available to stage plays today. I also wanted to watch how Lea Salonga would play Grizabella.

The question, “What happened to you?!” was a small price to pay for what was dangled in my polka-dotted face.

So I braved the world.

Guess what. Nobody asked the dreaded question; not one of my friends and acquaintances I hobnobbed with at cocktails! Either my face was too inconsequential to talk about, or the cats' masked faces were too spectacular to talk about anything else.

The black ants have long been gone and when I look in the mirror, I am no different from how I did before they were cauterized. Ecclesiastes 1:2 is spot on, “Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, all is vanity.”

But with my memories of Cats, which had all the elements I loved on Broadway (cats creeping through the aisles, distinct characterization, and seamless choreography), and now even more spirited, more techno savvy, more vibrant, more breathtaking with 12 minutes of Lea Salonga's presence, I feel I received a lot more grace than the warts that were torched or singed away.