Canadian Model

Every five weeks or so, I have the distinct pleasure of visiting my local salon. Owned by my good friend of 22 years, HD ensures I look as good as possible most of the time. Well, everything being relative.

My hair has been described by some as tortoise shell, which I enjoy immensely. There are about five colours in it now, ranging from a caramel highlight to the darkest of auburn lowlight. I act as a 'model' for my stylist, which means I only pay for product costs. It is then my job to hand out her business cards when someone comments on my do. This keeps me busy, as the comments just keep on comin'.

Last night was one of those alternating visits where I roust the roots, so I go in looking like Cruella DeVille and come out looking like I have a neon sign embedded in my head. It's an interesting change to take place in the space of three hours, for sure; I walk out feeling about five years younger. Since I don't actually pay for the service, I make sure to reward Denise in the tip department. Quite some time ago we agreed that food and various gifts were a much more telling indicator of how I feel for my buddy. Chocolate is always good, as are mix cds and homemade cat treats. Around the holidays, I always arrive with a large bag of goodies for anyone who provided a service for me through the year. They conspratorially tell me that they look forward to seeing me most, since everyone else defaults to bottles of wine or some alcohol. The baseboards of the old house the salon is in are lined with sparkly bottle bags from the front door through to the colour room and into the back where the sinks and the comfy purple chairs reside. It's pretty, but I feel better when they literally run over to the cd player to toss in my latest creation.

Denise's last appointment cancelled on her this time, so I offered her a ride home. On the way, we stopped for some chicken shwarma from the place I like. We've sort of decided to make this a ritual from now on.

Shwarma and bubble tea and no roots showing - what more could a girl want?