The hairline between right and wrong

I cheated on my hairdresser.

I can explain. I needed to get my hair cut and coloured and she was unavailable during the times that fit with my schedule. If I was to wait for her, it would be weeks, maybe even months. It’s not like I wanted to turn to someone else. I had no choice. So I did it. I made an appointment with another stylist - at a different salon. I intended for it to stop there. This was absolutely without question a one-time thing. After all, I have a long-standing relationship with my regular hairdresser, Tina, and I had no desire to jeopardize that. I knew I’d have to confess when I next saw her; after all, my hair would be a different colour. However, I felt confident she’d understand when I explained my desperation.

What I didn’t bank on was loving the way the new stylist, Stephanie, did my hair. Sure, I hoped it would be good, but I fell in love - with the cut, the colour, the way I felt leaving the salon. And let’s face it, the salon’s “cut and colour for $46.99” deal didn’t hurt. Still, I wanted to stay true to Tina and our sometimes colour-ful history, and I do love the way she does my hair too. So when the receptionist at the new salon asked if I wanted to pre-book my next appointment with Stephanie, I said "No, thank you." We would part ways here. “You can always make an appointment, then call and change it if something comes up,” she said sweetly, making it difficult to refuse. So I didn’t refuse. I made a follow-up appointment.

Now, here I am. Two hairdressers waiting in the wings, one with whom I have a solid and happy history, another who is a worthy adversary, with lower prices and a salon much closer to my house. What’s a girl to do? Either decision leaves me cutting one person out of my life like split ends, to be swept callously into the dustpan.

It's a decision I don't take lightly. And with the hair affair three weeks behind me, I have just four weeks of growth in which to make the choice.

My lunch is your lunch

After buying my lunch from the cafeteria today (Hawaiian pizza on a whole grain crust), I got on a crowded elevator to head back to my office. Someone I knew boarded the elevator behind me, looked at my pizza slice and commented, "That's not a healthy lunch," to which I responded, "Well, it's whole grain and it's got pineapples on it, which I'm counting as fruit." It was at this point that the guy beside me (a stranger) said (perhaps even defensively), "There's nothing unhealthy about that lunch." That opened the floodgates. The entire population of the elevator considered it an invitation to get involved, discussing in detail the relative health value of my lunch and the various food groups covered off in the pizza slice. As I got off the elevator, I thanked them all for assessing my lunch. We did not, ironically, get into the relative health value of taking the elevator. Oh well. Same time, same place tomorrow.

Study hard.

I drive by a local high school and read the sign on their lawn: "Exams: Jan. 25 to 28 - Study hard."

I imagine the conversation that led to the choice of wording, perhaps in the staff room: "Kids today don't know what it means to study. When we were young, we studied. We studied hard. These kids need some motivation. We need to put something on the sign - something that clearly states what's expected of them. We've always gone with 'Good luck,' which was entirely the wrong message. Let's go with 'Study hard' and wait for the exam results to skyrocket. I don't know why we didn't think of this before!"

And I imagine a student walking or driving past the sign and reading its advice, soaking it in. "My God. Study hard. Why have I not thought of this before? All this time I've been slacking off and skipping class and not studying and wondering why I'm flunking out. It's so clear to me now. I just need to study hard. That's it. I'm cancelling all of my plans, telling my friends I am out for that party on the weekend. I am going to study, study, study. And not just a little. I'm going to study hard, just like the sign says. Someday I'll look back and say, 'That sign changed my life.'"

And I imagine the parent seeing the sign and confronting their teenager after school. "Why aren't you studying for exams?" Their child replies, "These aren't the types of exams you're supposed to study for. They call them 'exams' but they're not 'exam exams.' No one expects you to study for them." To which the parent replies, "Don't you try to pull one over on me, young man. I saw the sign. It says right there in black and white: Study hard."

So to those who chose the wording for the sign, thank you. And to all those students writing exams this week, study hard. And while you're at it, good luck.

Halloween Life Lessons

Every Hallowe'en when I was a kid (I’m sure it’s the same now) I’d go home and separate my candy into two piles – edible and garbage. It’s not that any of my candy had been tampered with or riddled with razor blades; some of it was simply inedible. Thrills gum, bearing a devious similarity to grape chiclets, falls into this category.

I don’t want to be judgemental, but if you give away Thrills gum at Halloween, you are a mean, mean person. The stuff tastes like soap. The funny thing is, it’s not intended to be gag gum. It’s just really horrible tasting gum.

This stuff has been on the market for years, so I have to believe that the company has received plenty of feedback on its flavour. They know it tastes like soap. I saw it in a store recently and I was curious as to whether the company had changed the gum's flavour in the years since I’d had it as a kid. And as I got closer, I saw big bold text, boasting: “It still tastes like soap!”

Interesting marketing strategy, that. “Let’s not fix the problem, let’s capitalize on it.” I’m imagining other companies adopting this approach. Car dealerships bragging: “It’s still a lemon!”, fast food joints exclaiming: "It's still bad for you!" or cigarette companies proudly stating: "They'll still kill you!" (Come to think of it, the surgeon general beat them to the punch on that one).

So the next time you're faced with a problem and you feel compelled to find a solution, you might want to think again, and simply tell people the problem is just not going away. Hey - it's worked for Thrills.

Winter - you can't make me like it.

Winter is coming. Soon. I can’t tell you how much I am opposed to that.

I wouldn’t have a problem if winter stuck to its three-month seasonal allotment. It CLEARLY says on the calendar that winter starts on December 21 and ends on March 21. This is a LIE.

I’ve started to think of winter as an unwelcome houseguest. You get the call in October:

“You’re coming when? Next week? NO. That is NOT going to work for me. You’re not scheduled to come for another 8 weeks… I’m looking at the calendar right now. Do you even OWN a calendar?

“Right. So basically you’re saying there’s NOTHING I can do to dissuade you from coming early. You’ve got your own key and you’re coming in whether I like it or not. Charming."

So you sort of accept that winter has arrived, and it sticks around for a few months, at which point it has clearly worn out its welcome.

So you broach the subject: “So, not to be rude, but when are you leaving?

“Uh huh. You’re not sure. Maybe March, maybe April, maybe May. Super.”

And every year, I fall for the same old trick. There’s a nice day in February or March and I think: This is it. This is the year that Winter leaves early. This is the year that Spring arrives promptly on March 21. Never mind that it has NEVER happened before.

And sure enough, just as quickly as my optimism arrives, it is squashed, trampled, WHITED OUT by a blizzard….followed by rain and freezing rain.

“You’re back. I thought I’d seen the last of you for this year. Are you not tired of all the blustering and the biting and the snowing? Could you NOT give it a rest for another year? Don’t you have friends in Australia you could visit?”

I could stomach winter far more easily if it were equally balanced by my good friend, summer. But oh no, summer breezes in just long enough to make you fall in love and then it’s gone, leaving you heartbroken and cold, wondering how the hell you can possibly be shovelling again.

Winter’s coming. I get it. I can do nothing to influence its arrival or departure. I'll play along, wearing my coat and mitts. But I’ll be damned if I have to like it.

Hello. Is it me you're looking for?

The phone rings. My call display is wonky, so I can't quite make out the number, but I'm pretty sure it's a friend. "Hello," I say in my friend voice, not in the generic "hello" voice reserved for unknown callers. "Hello. This is so-and-so from Buyer Direct calling." Damn. I just wasted my "friend hello" on a stranger - a telemarketer at that. Now I feel committed to be friendly.

"Is this Mrs. Angus?" the voice asks. "Yes," I reply, not quibbling over the "Mrs." She gives me the spiel about the virtues of Buyer Direct, where I can pay half of what non-discerning consumers pay. I have no intention of going to Buyer Direct, but I did answer with the "friend hello" so I figure I'll make the poor girl's night by hearing her out. She then offers to send me out an information package, and a "special" invitation to attend a Buyer Direct Open House. Again, I have no intention of going, but I've come this far. I'll humour her ("I got a 'yes' to the information package mail-out," she can boast to her Buyer Direct friends). She confirms my address and then adds, "Buyer Direct is great for people who have bought a new home, are doing renovations or are making large purchases of furniture or appliances. Does this describe you?"

"Well, no, probably not." I admit.

"Well then it sounds like the timing's not right for Buyer Direct," she says abruptly. "Have a good night."

"Are you kidding me? YOU are dumping ME? I'm not even interested in your stupid Open House! I wouldn't go if I were building a new house, doing renovations on an old one AND buying furniture and appliances for both! And I only gave you the 'friend hello' because my call display is screwed up!" But the line is dead.

I've been rejected by a telemarketer. Ouch.

Yes, my dog is skinny.

I am walking my greyhound, Ruby. We come upon another dog (a pup) and owner. We do the obligatory hello and sniff (Me the hello, Ruby the sniff).

“Your dog is skinny,” says the owner, a keenly observant boy in his late teens.

“Yes, she is skinny,” I agree.

“Why? Why is she so skinny?” He seems affronted.

“She’s a picky eater.”

“I guess!” he responds. “She looks emaciated. Like you just rescued her from a bad owner.”

“Nope. She’s just skinny,” I say, wondering if I should feel defensive.

“What kind of dog is yours?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

“Great Dane,” he says.

“Cute,” I say sincerely, admiring the pup.

“What kind of dog is THAT?” he asks about Ruby. I can tell he doubts she has enough body fat to even qualify as a dog.

“A greyhound.”

“A greyhound?!” he replies. “Are they ALL that skinny?” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“They’re all pretty skinny,” I share. “But she’s exceptionally skinny.”

“I guess!” he says.

It’s time to move on. As we walk our separate ways, he shouts out: “Good luck getting some food on her!” By his tone, I can tell he’s not holding out much hope.

“Thanks,” I shout back, unsure if it’s an appropriate response.

I imagine he is home right now on his computer - plump great dane pup at his feet - googling “greyhound” and feeling just a touch superior. And that's ok, because I'm home at my computer, skinny greyhound by my side, feeling a touch superior too.