IT was dirty work that no one else wanted, applying hair color to the gray roots of my mom?s hair. If she could, my mom would do it herself, but I love her too much to let her do it on her own.

So one time, I offered to help. Armed with some stinky henna mixture, a thin comb and a toothbrush, I took on what would turn out to be a task I loved to bits.

My mom felt that to get her hair professionally colored would be too expensive (it still is), and so to stretch whatever portion of the budget she had left for vanity, she?d buy hair color and make me her parlorista. We used henna for a few years because she believed it did the least damage to her scalp and hair, and then graduated to the more high-end L?Oreal Excellence once she discovered how much more pleasant it smelled.

Since I was studying weekdays and my mom wasn?t the type to ask for favors when she?d see I was up to my neck in work, I?d color her hair on weekends. We?d spend lazy Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings catching up on each other?s lives while I carefully made sure that each root had been adequately covered. She?d talk about getting tired with all the housework and missing her previous life as a bank accountant, and I?d tell her about my boo-boos and accomplishment as an iskolar ng bayan (a UP student), all the while hoping she?d be equally proud of both.

Whenever I had extra money, I?d even buy the hair color kit myself. It didn?t matter if the price was a bit steep given my meager allowance. An unopened hair color kit at home could only mean that another bonding session was on its way.

After a while and after some prodding from the rest of the family, my dad wanted to have his hair colored too. And so, before or after I was done with my mom, my dad would sit in the same chair and allow me to shave around ten years off his look. We?d talk as well, but since it didn?t take as long to color his hair, our discussions were shorter and less sentimental.

It was something I looked forward to even if I wasn?t very good at it, if only because it afforded me some time with my parents. But alas, I became too busy with my life as a teacher that even my weekends soon weren?t free, and my parents probably felt that to make me their parlorista again would take too much of my time.

I still bought the kits, sure, but for about a year now, my mom has been hiring someone to drop by the house on weekday afternoons to color her hair. I haven?t met the bonafide beautician who had usurped my throne, but I was very jealous of her.

Because what I?ve never been brave enough to tell my parents face-to-face, for fear that I might sound too cheesy, is that I don?t care if it takes an entire hour or even the whole morning for me to work my magic on them. Especially now that I have the time for it again, I?d give anything to lovingly run my fingers through their hair, to make them feel how precious they really are. It?s the only wish the wannabe parlorista in me has for the New Year and perhaps, if I give them hair color kits this Christmas, and they get to read this one lazy Sunday afternoon, the universe might just smile upon me.

The author adores her Mama and Papa, and wrote this article on the occasion of her parents? 25th wedding anniversary.