Docs, Locks and Socks

I kind of hate the title of this post, but it makes me think of “Beers, Steers and Queers,” which in turn makes me giggle, so I’m leaving it.

Yesterday I walked into the mall and said, “Even if I have to go to Zellers, I am getting my hair cut today.”

My appointment with my new doctor had gone a bit long (by 90 minutes) and so I missed the appointment I had made for a haircut directly following my doctor’s appointment.

Oh yes, I have a new doctor. Because the last one retired, the one before that was an ass and the one before that was the one what did my prenatal care with Trombone. And before that I lived on cocaine and Scotch so I didn’t need a doctor.

My new doctor is everything I want in a doctor. He did magic tricks using the doppler, his med student and a keenly positioned, gloved hand so that the wee Babby2 finally and reluctantly made its heartbeat available for our listening pleasure. Then he ordered me an ultrasound so we can decide how old wee Babby2 is since everyone is confused by my 45 day supa-spectacular ultra-ovulatory menstrual cycles.

The only downside of My New Doctor is that, like old Dr. Awesome, he is a good doctor because he Takes His Time. The key of this downside being I missed my haircut.

I drove out of that part of town and into another, walked into the first salon I came across at the mall and asked if I could have a haircut, please, for the love of all that is decent, because if I go back to work on Tuesday without a haircut, Co-workers A, B, C, D and E will kill me.

Kill. Seriously. I have spared you all the trauma that is Cheesefairy Doesn’t Get a Haircut for Three Months and Bitches about It Constantly, but I have not spared my work colleagues. My work colleagues are saturated with my haircut trauma like the rest of the world is saturated with Britney Spears.

When you walk into a salon where they don’t usually take walk-ins and you ask for the next appointment, what you get is the newest stylist on the floor. She was experienced, yes, but she was also a bit insane. The other stylists who were between clients just stared at her and, I think, were putting curses on her, judging by the sour facial expressions. The whole time she was cutting, she was talking (often about her co-workers! in a derogatory fashion!) and I felt like schooling her a little on employment politics. (First lesson: if your co-workers are right there? Don’t talk shit about them to the customers.) But she cut quickly and at least she didn’t ask about me, which is my least favourite part of a haircut, so I gritted my teeth and made small talk.

Because I watched her cut my hair, I know it is a good haircut. It is the length and style I wanted. But then, she asked if she could put mousse in my hair and I said “sure.”

You know how in the beauty magazines they say to squeeze an amount of mousse the size of a small lemon into your hand and then work it well through the hair? She filled both her hands with mousse. And she did not have small hands. If we stick with citrus, she had an amount of mousse the size of a pomelo.

SMEAR. SCRUNCH. Here comes the blowdryer. No diffuser. NO DIFFUSER! HELP!

As I told Saint Aardvark later, I have never looked that bad in my life. Even when I wake up with a cold, 11 weeks pregnant with a 15 month old who also has a cold, I do not look that bad. All I could do was stare in horror as she kind of mussed at my head, hoping for a bedheady look? I’m not at all certain and while the stylists who had been watching the whole time had the grace to look away and mutter amongst themselves.

Then she pulled out the hairspray.

And didn’t ask my permission, she just fired it up. I haven’t had hairspray on my head since, since, since, grade something. I am 33 years old and highschool was a long time ago and hairspray was a bad idea then.

“You won’t want to touch that for a while,” she said. NO SHIT! Or stand near open flame or rest my head against a wall lest I become permanently affixed.

Actually what I did was walk around the mall frantically handling my hair so that it would un-crunch. And looking for socks.

Last week, when the weather turned colder, I looked for some socks in my sock drawer. I found two pairs of so-called “knee socks” which actually come to the knee only when repeatedly tugged throughout the day and one pair of fuzzy red socks, plus approximately 17 white sport socks of the ankle-height variety. Why so many ankle socks, self? Oh yeah, I used to run. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Unfortunately only the knee socks are appropriate for my stunning work attire so I was forced to wear the same socks for several days before giving up and wearing non-matching white ankle socks and affecting a sort of “What? Me? Shut up!” hyper-aggressive stare on public transit. Whilst, naturally, complaining about the state of my sock drawer to the poor, beleaguered Co-worker A who must be really looking forward to my going back off work for a while, what with the hair and the socks and the constant eating.

I went directly to the sock department at Sears. I knew I did not want any of the Sears “Jessica” line of socks because I hate Jessica and her clothing line. It never fits right, it doesn’t wear well and I think I have fallen for her cheap knee socks before. Not today, Jessica! But the other option, the Calvin Klein socks were $14 a pair. And then there were the organic microfibre made-from-free-range-duck-skin socks (kidding, duck lovers) at $12 a pair. I took one of each and wandered about the store where I encountered the new Lands’ End department of Sears. Lands’ End, which has always sounded to me like an old biddy describing her aching buttocks, the catalogue: LIVE! in your Sears! They had a 3-pack of knee highs which promisingly came in 2 sizes: S/M and L/XL and were $32.50, so, the cheapest of all the knee socks except for those of that sloot, Jessica. And also, were lovely and looked like they might actually approach my knee.

I hereby present my new knee sock, with whom I am deeply in love, next to my old knee sock, whose elastic I may remove soon as its cutting off of my calf’s circulation cannot continue. I also present my hair, which apparently goes straight from fear whilst being shaken vigorously.