Salon Elegance faces its toughest test yet

After the run-around from the Ontario medical system yesterday, and the important decision to swallow the antibiotic, today was a more relaxing day. Well, for most it would have been, for me it is one of those days to fear and dread: it was time for another haircut.
 
I’d become increasingly aware of the fact that the red was coming through and turning me once again into a mixture of Donald Trump and Porky Pig. The obvious solution is to get out the electric razor and give myself a buzz cut – but being a male of a certain age, there is little incentive to do that. Besides, my last shaven head haircut ended in disaster: Mrs Ottawacker told me I looked like a pumpkin.
 
Odalia, my brave and talented hairdresser, had been well briefed and had, on Sunday, managed to keep a straight face while I told her what I wanted. Then, as last time, she had told me what she would do, and I had nodded my head in silent agreement. Never piss off your hairdresser – one of life’s vital lessons. So, this grey and gloomy Wednesday morning, I dropped off Ottawacker Jr at school, and drove onto the Trainyards.
 
In the end, it was pretty smooth sailing: mirrors everywhere; smiling faces; no wait time. And, above all, nothing to sign to say that “if I wasn’t fully satisfied, an expert would…” The realization that I was, by about 20 years, the youngest person in the salon did give me some cause for concern, but by then I was wrapped in silver foil and none of the alien brain waves from the chemtrails overhead could affect me. I came out of there feeling significantly happier than when I went in, a feeling that Mrs Ottawacker told me was what most people have when they leave a hair salon. I went blonde, well, highlights, which perfectly match my natural grey/white in certain areas, and mask the areas of scalp that are becoming increasingly visible in various parts.
 
The antibiotics have started to kick in, so I am relatively optimistic for the first time in a long time. And so, when Ottawacker Jr made his call from the school office, with his “can I come home because I’m injured” voice, I listened carefully to what he said (“Caelan kicked me when we were playing football and it has hurt my groin”), made a careful evaluation of the facts, and told him to stop being soft, a kick in the groin only hurts for a little while, and go back to class. This he did. And when I went to pick him up, he managed to run to me and say that he liked my haircut. I might be getting the hang of certain things.