Sep 17, 2009

Thursdays That Look and Smell Like Mondays

I'm at Fennell's RV Repair this morning, dropping off my van to have the propane system checked out. I'm not really sure what this means, other than it has propane somewhere "behind the scenes" that can either run the fridge and the stove and heat water, or make the van explode in a firey death ball with me in it. To reduce the likelihood of the latter I needed to take it to some trained professionals and have them look at it and then pat me on the head and either assure me everything is fine and I probably won't turn into flambe, or that I likely will unless I sign over my savings account and several organs.

So I drop the van off at the early hour of 8:30am, ask them to call me when it's done (Oh, we'll need at least 2 hours. At least.) walk up the side of the highway to a coffee shop, sit down, and promptly realize that I'd left my phone in the van. Sigh.

I haven't had my haircut in many many months, and have been thinking lately that this should be rectified seeing as how I was starting to be mistaking for a victim of freak lightning attacks. But then I'd start to think about all the money I'm not making, and dropping $50 at my favourite salon was difficult to justify. So it's been pigtails and bandannas for me, and I'd be lying if I said this has been doing wonders for my sex life.

As I was sitting in the coffee shop I noticed that there were 4 (FOUR) hair salons on the block. This was a sign. So I marched over to First Choice, one of those cheapy places where they don't take appointments. A $13 haircut has got to be better than my grunge-billy look, right?

A few minutes after I put my name down a woman emerged from the back room. Her hair was so thin from decades of over-bleaching that she was practically bald. Her mascara was thick and gluncky and flaking off onto her cheeks. Her lipstick had disappeared (likely absorbed into dozens of cigarette filters), leaving behind an orangey lip liner on a sour sneer.

Don't judge, don't run. It's okay, I just want a trim. Anyone can do a trim.

So I sit down in her chair and say that I'd like a trim. She starts picking through my hair like it's covered in lice (note: it's not). Our conversation roughly resembles the following.

"If you want to grow your hair out you don't need to cut it."
"I haven't had a cut in ages, so I'm thinking just a trim-"
"If you're growing it out, it'll just take longer if you cut it."
"I'm not really growing it out, I'd just like a trim-"
"Hair grows from up here (jabs my scalp) not from the ends."
"Um...yeah."
"So you don't really need a cut."
"..."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Um, cut it?"
"Okay, whatever. I'll do whatever you want, I'm just saying you'll need to tell me."
"So you'll trim it?"
"Tell me exactly what you want."
"A. Trim."
"What about these layers? If you want me to touch them you have to tell me exactly how much you want me to cut off."
"For every piece of hair?"
"Trim means something different to everybody."
"Let's start again. I'd like-"
"If you want me to cut it you'll have to tell me exactly what you want. I mean, it's your hair." (She said hair but I heard funeral.)

This is where I get out of the chair and walk out.

Back at Fennel's and the propane check is complete and they hadn't even called to tell me. I mean, they didn't know that my phone was in the van and I wouldn't have gotten the call. Then they have the nerve to tell me the tank is a goner and has been safely removed. So now I can't use it to cook with OR create massive illegal fireballs. Sigh.

I drive by another First Choice and decide to give the chain another go. Having a hairdresser who doesn't want to cut hair has to be an exception to the rule. And I'm right. In round two I get a decent haircut from someone that not only understands the concept of trim, she fully supports me having one. From her. See, being cheap pays off.

Back at my car a coffee I'd jammed in between my seat and parking break before forgetting all about it has tipped on it's side. My change tray is now a fun little pool of greasy creamy cold coffee with receipts and gum wrappers and cherry pits floating in it. No, I don't have a garbage bag in my car. Yes, I put things like gum wrappers and cherry pits in my change tray.

See, owning two vehicles is hard. Pity me.

1 comment:

Matt said...

I had a haircut today, and I swear the guy that cut it was drunk. I'm afraid to look at my reflection head-on now, because I'm confident there's no symmetry.

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