HAIR: THE REVIVAL

When you swim in the shallow end, you’re going to hit your head on the bottom every now and then.  Yes, I am overly concerned about my hair.  I’ve been have a bad hair year with gray imposters sprouting up and a ‘do that naturally styles itself into that popular feathered look.  From the ‘70s. 

When my stylist unexpectedly shut down her salon, I had to dive back into the frightening abyss of unknown cutters.  I Googled salons for an hour and a half, reaching dead ends with stylists booking three months from now and establishments that required me to register online with yet another password to memorize (eight characters, including at least one number, two punctuation marks and an optional bouncing emoticon) only to take me to a screen indicating the online booking system was experiencing technical difficulties.  It was looking like I might have to be a walk-in at a place wafting with Old Spice where the choice is buzz cut or full noggin shave.

Eventually I did find a salon in Vancouver’s trendy Yaletown.  I phoned and a live person answered.  I begged for a cut and highlights any evening this week.  I should have seen the openings as a clear sign that the salon was not as exclusive as its highly stylized website suggested.  Instead, I was simply relieved, knowing someone could tame my tangles and give my some youthful California streaks before my trip to L.A.

In arriving for my appointment, I dumped eight bucks in the parking meter for the maximum two-hour period, walked by the salon to case the joint and then entered.  The interior met the basic criteria for trendiness:  high ceilings, exposed industrial pipes coated in white paint and a New-Age-meets-club-music soundtrack.  After I donned a thin black robe that far from flattered me, the receptionist ushered me to a chair by the window for passersby to mock.  I fixated on the odd light fixtures at each stylist’s stall, enlarged rhino tusks protruding from the center of each mirror, a clear misstep. 

Serious hesitation came when my stylist appeared wearing a paisley vest like I owned in the ‘80s and sporting a bad dye job that made the back of his hair frizzy.  Too late.  I was in the chair without any hope of a last-minute pardon.

The initial consult caught me off guard.  Jed squinted as he stared at my face.  Was he lamenting the fact the salon didn’t pre-screen clients with an interview, a video submission and five references?  He spoke of my “very long face” and the prominence of gray.  Defensively, I almost blurted something about the vest.  I didn’t, of course.  With all that gray, I am supposed to be older and, yes,...wiser.

Jed lacked the quips of my on-the-lam stylist.  Moreover, he lacked basic conversation skills.  I sat for an eternity with foil in my hair while flipping through magazines that either documented Lady Gaga’s weight gain or featured black-and-white photo spreads of emaciated models working to put heroin on the table.  The images had the unintended effect of making me feel not as bad about my very long face.

After another twenty minutes of hair rinsing, washing, toweling and further goo applications, the first snips occurred.  I gazed at the smock covering my lap as gray clippings fell.  Where had all the auburn gone? 

After a prolonged cutting session, out came the blow dryer and Jed shaped my hair into a bouffant to rival Marge Simpson.  Either that or I resembled a 1980s televangelist.  While horrified, I wasn’t surprised.  What should I have expected from a guy in an ‘80s vest?  Moreover, the “subtle” blond highlights I’d requested were too subtle.  I couldn’t see any hint of a color change.

At the receptionist’s desk, I forked over my credit card and in a quick swipe I became $230 poorer.  I walked to my car, grateful for evenings getting darker sooner due to the time change while cursing the fact I’d have to being the Great Salon Search anew.  I discovered more to curse about on my windshield:  a parking ticket.  In all, a costly lesson from being too Hair Aware. 

This is why some people collect baseball caps.

DOG OF A DATE

It started out well.  Sunny Friday evening, trendy coffee spot in Vancouver’s über trendy Yaletown, even an open patio table with prominent No Smoking signs.  I ordered my iced coffee and checked a few emails while waiting for Vijay. 

The incessant barks of someone’s frantic dog provided the only annoyance.  Okay, my dog.  I decided to rescue my disgruntled pooch from the nearby car and let the neighborhood have some peace.  He circled a couple of times before parking himself by my chair.  Nap time after a hectic day of doggy daycare (and the aforementioned five minutes of abandonment).

Vijay arrived, we shook hands and he sat down for a good chat.  Well, one is always hopeful it will be a good chat. 

I led things off, asking about his work and, more specifically, his commute.  Figured we had something in common as I travel five hours each day for work and he flies to Saskatchewan each week for his job.  He shared the facts, nothing else.  No “Which one of us is crazier?”, no “I do it because Saskatoon is on the cutting edge in the computer tech industry”, no “There’s nothing better than the prairie sky.”

Next topic, please.  Family.  All in Ohio.  My relatives are in Texas.  Wow.  Connection.  American states!  Not particularly close to one another.  Not linked in any obvious way. 

And there, at ten minutes into the conversation, came the first awkward moment of silence.  I reached down to pat my dog.  Vijay forced a smile and said he was allergic to most pets.  ("Rest assured," he said.  “I took my allergy meds before coming over.”)  My overly friendly dog didn’t so much as sniff Vijay’s way.  His senses are truly extraordinary, able to detect early a Person We’ll Never See Again .

Somehow I got us on track for more chatter about...gosh, I can’t recall and, trust me, it wouldn’t make for gripping blog reading.  At some point, I began to pat the dog more, grateful for his company.  Maybe his sensory prowess extends to ESP.  Maybe his auto tantrum had been a thoughtful act.  Maybe he knew this would be a dud of a date.  Maybe he just knows how to play the odds.  (Things to do this afternoon:  Google Vegas.  “Hotels casinos that allow pets”.)

Once again, a parking meter enforced the Bad Date Mercy Rule.  Call it a night after forty-five minutes of polite, forgettable probes, pats and pauses.  As a formality, I told Vijay that the dog and I would head for the ferry terminal or fit in a dog walk.  Vijay opted for the walk.  I did my best to muster up my Faint Hope clause.  Maybe some movement would spark something on what we’d both noted several times was “a beautiful night.”  

Nope.  We waited in silence at a stoplight.  It was another sign.  Red means stop.  The DON’T WALK made things even clearer.    

We moved on. 

I spoke a few more times, saying “Excuse me” to passersby as my dog spotted the next tree on our route.  Vijay and I even shared a little more conversation.  The search for something in common proved fruitless. 

In the end, I took the lead—even over my alpha-minded pooch—and we stopped at an off-leash dog park.  No need to try to entertain.  I let the dog free, laughed at his own clumsy first encounters with a teensy Speed Demon, a gangly, timid mutt and a scruffy, bouncy schnauzer.  Ever the wiser one, my dog gave up after ten minutes, spending the final moments of his excursion circling me and chewing on grass.  I may be hopelessly challenged when it comes to human interaction, but there’s no mistaking the bond between the dog and me.  Cat ladies, I judge you not!

The dog park was closer to Vijay’s condo than where I’d parked.  I suggested that the dog and I could make it back on our own, but Vijay stuck with his good manners and escorted us back, bookending our time with another handshake, colder, more formal than the first. 

From the passenger seat of the car, my dog barked at a homeless man who leaned toward the window.  Sometimes I want an instant stop to the yapping, but I welcomed the din as I pulled away.  My dog was just happy to be back in a known environment, protective when faced with a stranger, already looking forward to the next phase of our driving adventures.  At the first red light, he hopped up and licked my ear.  Love, relief, maybe just a desire to get that grassy residue off his tongue.  Whatever the purpose, it was clearer than anything that happened on the latest dud of a date.