THE DEEJAY FROM DUBAI IS RUINING MY LIFE!

No, this is not about being overexposed to songs by Britney or LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” (but if you ask me, Right Said Fred had a lot more fun with the subject of egomania).
You can, however, surmise that this is one of my shallow posts. You’ve been warned.

I suppose it’s even shallower when you realize this isn’t the first time I’ve written about my hair. But then you—or some other reader—may be equally fixated on follicle follies. HIGHLIGHTS OF SUMMER remains my most-read post. (I’m sure it has nothing to do with the shirtless shot of David Beckham. Sometimes the writing just crackles, right?)

Here’s the “problem”: I’m overdue for a haircut. Three weeks overdue! Every morning I awaken to a nightmare. Something like this. At 47, one might think I am flaunting the fact that I still have a full head of hair. But this goes beyond fullness.

I have clown hair.

All I need to do is spray the rainbow colors into my curly mop and put on a pair of who-knows-how-many-feet-have-been-in-‘em bowling shoes. It’s enough to make Mary Richards cry that I’m not dead.

So how did I become an afro-topped, mullet-backed tragedy? It’s all about stylist loyalty. I can’t cheat on her. I should. I am entitled to. She had the nerve to get chummy online with a deejay from Dubai. Skype chats, text messages,...who knows what else? And he had the nerve to break the virtual barrier and fly here for a visit. They have two weeks to turn a techno-crush into true love. My stylist took no bookings for the first half of November.

Now I’m all for people finding love. Unless, that is, my hair has to suffer. It can’t work. What if she moves to Dubai? How can she leave me?

Is this what it’s come to? As a chronically single man, I am now reading more into casual service relationships. Oh, no! What next? What if Tara quits her job as barista at the Starbucks on Hastings? What if Mabel—or is it Mavis?—walks away from her job (and me) as the weekend librarian?

Egad! I’m not so monogamous! Okay,...easy. One possible breakup at a time. Back to Carrie. We’ve been seeing each other for five years. Initially, she was just my rebound hair stylist after Christine up and moved with her husband and child to the B.C. Interior. (She had the audacity to want an affordable family home!) Surprisingly, Carrie and I clicked. Yes, opposites do attract. I’m a guy. She’s not. She’s a big-dog gal. I’m a small pup dude. (Though, really, I must cringe at calling myself a “dude”. I’ll never be a surfer—don’t like all that sand getting in my swimsuit.) She has ink art expanding across her shoulders, arms and legs while I can’t even handle temporary tattoos for the Terry Fox Run. She always fits in crass remarks about her vagina—or someone else’s? I try not to listen too closely. I joke about how six-year-olds relate to the world. Somehow it all works. Except, of course when she’s not working.

I won’t try a haircut from the lady two streets down from me. She can’t even prune her hedge right. Who knows what horrors will happen in the darkness of her makeshift basement salon?! I confess that I have gone online at looked up other hairdressers. City folks. A ferry ride away. Carrie will never know. Except she will. She will recognize the uneven line in the back. She’ll notice that someone got lazy and finished up with a razor instead of shears.

Why am I fretting? She gave me permission to cheat. Still, I can’t do it. I have this mole that new folks always nick. I don’t like it when a stylist massages my temples during the shampooing. Certain smocks make me look fat. And what if I have to spend forty-five minutes in a chair listening to a Susan Boyle CD?

There are too many risks that come with cheating.

So here I am, the eternally loyal, risk-averse schmuck who has to avoid glancing at myself in mirrors until The Return of Carrie. Sound like a horror movie? Let me reiterate: clown hair. There are many who get wigged out by the imagery.

So I wait things out. In a fortnight, peace will be restored. In the meantime, I’m going hat shopping...even though I hate anything on my head. Do hats come in XXL? At least ‘tis the season for toques.

Thank you for reading. I promise to spare you any more fretful reflections of my bad hair days in the near future.

Unless, of course, Carrie is Dubai bound. Then I’ll be looking for a support group. And, of course, another salon chair where I can plop down, clench-grip the arms and sweat profusely as I begin a whole new relationship.