Wednesday, 3 October 2012

Hair Meets Razor

One day, a little fifty-shades-of-gray ball of fur walked up to me. He looked up at me with huge, sad puppy eyes and told me that it was embarrassing enough that he had to run around the park with a bright red light, but did he have to have shaggy, crusty hair to boot?

I mapquested the directions to the groomers and we set out with Bonnie at the handles and L-dawg at the leash.

Here is the aftermath:

He asked for this shot

It's always a bit nerve-wrecking when you're dealing with a new groomer. Same goes for a hair stylist of the human persuasion. You pretty much want a complete background check and a DNA sample before entrusting them with yourself or your canine.

You never know if they'll come back with a mohawk, a tongue ring and an arrogant swagger.
I have a perfect stylist at home in NS, but her work is one hour from the city. I had a brain wave (it happens) and decided to look for a stylist in Halifax. This girl I found gave me the worst cut (or probably my 2nd worse cut, as I've been given a rat tail in the past) and made me want to hibernate for 5 years and break every mirror in Canada

Lesson learned.

After dropping off my boy, we wheeled to physio. Lindsay got to relax in the waiting room while Bonnie learned the ropes. I was so proud of her; she caught on so quickly...and she was so proud of me when she saw me flex and bench press a treadmill.

The problem today was my sugar.

Once again the diabetes reared its putrid face and started delivering uppercuts. Frankly my blood got a little insulted.

I texted Lindsay asking her to come in to the treadmill room, knowing full well she'd think there was a ginormous emergency and she'd have to bring a posse of medical staff with her.

Once she understood that my death was not imminent, she ran to get me some OJ. After I picked myself up off the floor and resumed normality, I began to amaze all eyes in the room with my stretching technique.

What I couldn't conquer today was the bike. The damn thing has something against me; that, or I was right about Carman. Perhaps there was a stationary bike meeting and they voted in favor of messing with me.

I have to plan a retaliation. If you have ideas, please advise.


  1. Bring a bike helmet next time - the people around you might think you are harboring a mental condition... But the exercise bike will know $hit just got real...

    Whatever happens - I'm proud of you. Love, Steve

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