This morning, I went to have my usual facial at my usual skin clinic, and it dawned on me that I've been having my facial done by only one person for a few years now. Having not been exempted from the hormonal, pimply stage of adolescence, I thought I'd never get used to the tortures of acne pricking and prickling. That is, until years later, I found Beth, who did my facial with hands so light and gentle unlike any other. It was my uncle who referred me to Beth, saying "She's the best, sarap magpa-facial!" when I didn't think it was even possible that "sarap" and "facial" could actually belong together in the same sentence. Hers were hands that finally put an end to silent cursing and self-pitying and pondering on life's injustice under the facial cleaning lamp. No post-redness, no facial scars, no emotional trauma. I never went to any other skin clinic or any person since then. No one else could touch my face but Beth.
And this got me thinking about random people along the way, who, like Beth, could do such ordinary work so extraordinarily.
I remember Ate Alma, a photocopy lady at Ateneo, who, unlike the typical photocopier, never made a student feel that photocopying those mounds of paper was ever such an exhausting, dragging, or burdensome type of work. I was not a frequent Ate Alma customer, but the moment she turned to me when I first uttered "Ate, pa-photocopy po" at her station, I immediately felt she was something special. It might be the way she makes small talk with a homey smile, or the way she endearingly calls every student "pangga", but ultimately it was how she could build relationships through her work. She doesn't treat a student like a client requesting for her service, but more like a friend, or a child, an alaga, asking for a favor, and it was a favor she was always so gracious about. She's become Ateneo culture: cura personalis in every sense of the word ("care for the entire person"), just by photocopying, and more.
Ace, the barista who prepares coffee at the executive floor of our office, also comes to mind. One look at her and you know that she doesn't just hand out cups of coffee during meetings. Instead, she struts her way into board rooms with her fabulous hairstyle and high heels, takes the orders flawlessly no matter how many people there are, and serves signature "Ace Coffee" with absolutely no air of inferiority complex whatsoever around the big bosses. A few minutes of her presence with a hint of aloofness would occasionally bring some humor amidst a serious discussion. Yesterday I discovered a word that I liked so much, which I think suits her nicely: aplomb -- a sense of self-possession, poise, or assurance -- which, in her case, comes as a result of mixing coffee with character.
I can recall countless more people of the same stature. Like Fely, who threaded my bushy eyebrows with such vigor like it were some devastated piece of artwork that she just HAD to transform into a masterpiece. Or Manong Bebot, our reliable high school technician who could work plain magic on failed sound systems or projectors or whatever old school thing have you. Or Inday, who works at a modest salon at the outskirts of our village but can make your pedicure look like it was done at the Basement (only she can do my mom's toes). Or Sugar, the cashier at the Ministop who knows the names of our entire actuarial team and greets every one of us so cheerfully as if the Ministop were the happiest place on earth (and sometimes it is). We all meet such people in our daily encounters. It could be the taxi driver who once chatted with you about the local elections and made you feel like he was your personal chauffeur, or the Taho Man who is always on time at your doorstep for breakfast on early Saturday mornings. Think about it. There is always someone in your regular environment or routine who is memorable. THEY bring out the extra in the ordinary. On the other hand, some people have extraordinary things thrust in their hands, but somehow, they live ordinary lives.
When you do your work well, whatever it may be, people don't only notice. They remember.
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