Don't Cry for me Argentina - the truth is my hair will grow back... someday

I just about went out and bought a webcam tonight. Seriously, I almost did. If I would have had enough hours in the day, I so would have been there getting one. Why, you ask? Well, mon petit amis, I'll tell you. Do you readers remember back to one July 19th day, when a certain Chunkerific blogger did a vlog entry about her fucked up hair? Well, today I can identify. In a big way. Even the missus sort of thought this was webcam worthy. But to detail the day, I need to go in chronological order, with some backfiling of stuff on the way. So bear with me, lovely 5 readers, because this is the fucked up shit you all like.
The whole hair fiasco 2007 had its genesis back on Saturday. You see, ever since we got Brutus, the new puppy, it has become glaringly apparent that Lady, the Cocker-Bichon that I affectionately call "Cocka-Chon" in my head, has some neglected, fucked up hair. I mean, her back was such a mess of matted bullshit that I don't know if water even penetrated that shit. So, for some reason, on Saturday, after bathing her to get the feces off her hair-knotted arse, I had to make her a grooming appointment post-haste. SO, I call Petland, who are cheap and do a bang up job. I can't get in until the 12th. So then I tried this other place. No answer. I didn't even bother trying my vet, because they are always a month to get in. But then I decide to try "Dr. Shit-fee", who you can always get into, but who is always trouble.
Dr. Shitfee has been around since Jesus was a child, and even though he has been in Canada since confederation, you still can't understand sweet fuck all of what he is saying because he comes from France. But whatever. I initially took my animals to him years ago and thought it was all good until I realized he was expensive and found a vet that I love. Even though she comes across as sort of an ice queen, Dr. True is the one for me. But anyway, years and years ago, like 10, Margo was in town for a visit, and she calls Dr. Shitfee for a grooming. Now, I am fuzzy on the particulars, but she drops Meathead at his office and is quoted, I dunno, 60 bucks or something for the grooming, and told she can pick him up later in the afternoon. Now, for some reason, we go to Saskatoon together for the day. As I said, I dunno why. But, off we go, and I remember this like yesterday. We are strolling along on Broadway, this trendy hippy pretentious type of artsy Street, probably examining tea towels made of hemp or some stupid fucking thing, or looking at those fucking pansy ass stupid Amos and Andes wool sweater things that went hand in hand with Birkenstalks (I had both, the oversized Central American made wool sweater, and the Birks, God help me, gotta love the university crowd of the 90s - but i lived on Broadway, so I couldn't help it), when suddenly Margo gets a call on her cell phone (which was probably the size of a Kleenex box then). It's her dad, picking up the dog, and being told it will cost like 100 d0llars because Dr. Frogface said his ears were infected and that he treated him, without asking. Well, there is Margo, standing on the sidewalk, with du Maurier Special Mild 100 in her one hand, kleexbox phone in the other, screaming fuck this and fuck that and stupid prick and blah blah blah, and if you know Margo and money, this ain't something that will be let go easily. So I am sure all the way home she fumed and chain smoked. So that told me to never go there again. We had taken Daisy there once or twice for grooming, but her ears were never the problem - but he kept wanting to fix her.
So we never go to the frog speakin' pisshead again. But I make the appointment for today, just to tempt fate, because that's how I roll - things go too good, so I need to fuck them up a little to show I am not worthy.
So whatever. Keep in mind that this is my busy season at work. The busiest. And I have so many loose ends and unfinished stuff and fires to put out and craziness, so it's high stress, and I have to host a student orientation yesterday that took two ativan to quell the tide. So, it's been crazy. But I find a way to drop the dog off this morning, and head on into work. The day isn't too horrid, really, because seriously, God gave me a few miracles and most things worked out that I was stressing about, and so I decided to walk to the building next door to check out the book store. Now, let me just say that my employer is based outside of my city, but I am a staff of one, housed in a technical school. So I walk to the other building and do my chores there and see the cosmotology studio. Now, I remember distinctly my secretary saying, when I asked, to NEVER, EVER, get my hair cut there. Another staff member reiterated.
But, tempting fate loser that I am, because I can never leave well enough alone and have to sabbatoge everything, in true codependent manner, I saunter on in there and upon seeing nobody in there, I ask if I can get my hair cut. You see, my hair hasn't been cut since the end of July and I have really, really thick hair that grows like crazy, so I looked like some sort of clean hippy. And, while in my crazy youth and 20s, where I used to spend like 50 bucks getting my hair cut on Broadway, I am now 37 and am willing to go to the barber, because let's face it, if I tried to look like Duran Duran at my age, it would just be sick. So, if I have been trusting my thick, flowing locks to a 70 year old barber for the past 5 years, how bad can this shit be?
Well, I sit down, and the girl is really nice, but doesn't know how to use the clippers, so her teacher comes and tells her what to do. I, being the nice dude I am, just let them use me as a dummy, because I mean, I like it short - just leave me some bangs to gel and scrunch, and I am happy.
But the teacher is doing weird shit, like telling her to just follow the contour of my head - wtf? The barber uses a comb to guide his clippers, but not these folks. I seem to notice that my head looks funny, but assume they'll "fix it in the mix", as they say in the record Biz.
Well, I assumed wrong. Suddenly, like the arrival of an unexpected menstrual period on your Sunday afternoon quickie, the jig was up, and the gown came off and she was saying thank you for your patience. I looked in the mirror, saw all this short hair, along with this weird strip of bangs clumped down the middle of my forehead, and thought "I cannot leave this room looking like this". So, I go and pay my 6 dollars and then, as a well-planned afterthought say "Hmmm, I think I'll just pick up some gel while I am here." So, I leave the room thinking "please, sweet Jesus, don't let me see anyone I know" and make a run for the nearest bathroom. Being a technical institution, and using the bathrooms located next to the carpentry and electician departments, I decide it best to go into the toilet stall and disperse my gel before going to the mirror and throwing it on my head. I make a scrunch the best i can and then head back. I see some people waiting at my secretary's desk for me, so I make a quick beeline, behind some shelves, yell "I'm back from the bookstore" to them, and wait. Nobody comes in, so I go out, and my secretary is all "JT! Your hair!" and I was all "Holy fuck, I went nextdoor and this is what happened" and then she can't stop laughing and is all "I told you never to go there" and I am all "I know!" and she is all "I saw you and made those people come see you tomorrow instead" and so I went back to the can to fix it again. When I come out, everyone is all "nice haircut!" because she tipped them off in the meantime, and soon I am at reception, with a crowd, laughing, and their words of condolence are all consisting of "It doesn't look that bad!", which makes me want to cry, since when you tell some "it doesn't look that bad", we all know that is something you save for friends who have huge zits, or camel toes or extreme deformities and such. I know, I've said it to many a hideous friend. When I dyed Margo's hair ash blond and it turned green, I said the same thing. I can read between the lines. So then, this dude who works there who I don't even know says the same thing: "It doesn't look bad!" and then I felt like the bottom of the barrel - for a man to tell another man that his fucking HAIR looks ok, well, that signifies that the bad hair dude really looks fucked up. I know women can tell each other over and over again how beautiful each other are, but for one man to tell another man that his fucking HAIR looks ok, well that just means that you are fucking hideous and he is thanking sweet Jesus that it isn't his hair, and that if he was stuck in the woods with the evil hillbilly from Deliverance who was saying "You sure do have a purty mouth" and made Jon Voight squeal like pig and you, well, the hillbilly is the better option. And I mean, he obviously was thinking "dude, you ain't gonna be getting any until that fucking whatever it is on your head grows out" because I was thinking the same thing. I mean, unless Mrs. JT has some secret fantasy about seducing an egg-headed retarded boy from Jupiter who looks like he needs to live in a bubble and have his arse wiped, well, I can't see this doing it for her. I mean, fuck, I couldn't even imagine dancing with myself looking like this, if you know what I mean....
So anyway, I become the laughing stock of the building. So I go and pick up daughter #1 from school, and Mrs. JT is to pick her up at my office so they can go shopping. Well, I am on the phone when she comes and she peeks into my office, looks at me, bursts out laughing.... so I know it's gotta be bad. Well, I go out and join her and daughter and secretary after and they are laughing and daughter, bless her heart, feels bad and starts rubbing my back, which makes me feel even worse. THEN, "Jimmy", one of my employees, who is totally baked all the time, comes and sees and he's all "whoa, that's like short" so I mean, if he notices, even through the THC haze, well, that's sad.
But I deal, because it is what it is. But I go to pick up the fucking dog. WELL. Doctor fucking fuckhead says to me, "YOUR DOG, SHE'Z GOT ZE WOYST EARS I HAVE EVER SZENE.... I HAD TO TREAT. YOU NOT NOTICE HER SCRATCH EARS? I FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE YOU NOT NOTICE! WHAT HAPPEN TO OTHER DOG, BORN IN 98? DEAD? THAT'S YOUNG! WHAT HAPPEN? YOU HAVE CAT? YOU BRING DOG AND CAT IN ON MONDAY, AND WE SEE EARS. I NEVER SEE SUCH BAD EARS."
So he is trying to tell me that the filthy ears might be mites and whatever. But the fucking dog never scratches at all, so I am so pissed off in Margo style that I take my bald, bad eared dog and drive to my vet and make appointments for all the animals for Monday. We'll just see who is all full of mites. FUCKING stupid asshole cunt of an old vet, that's all I have to say. And so I am asking questions and getting all pissy and he pretends he is deaf and keeps saying "Bonne!" and I want to die because the door is open and he is making it sound like we are filth pigs and everyone in the waiting room can hear. I wanted to say "maybe you should get those fucking liver spots looked at, dickhead, and forget your obsession with dirty ears" because Dr. Frogface used to go swimming the same time I used to do the parent/child swimming lessons with the kids, and this old fucker is covered head to toe in liver spots and of course would want to strike up conversations whenever he was changing, and I mean, seeing a 100 year old French vet who is covered in liver spots naked is enough to make one want to Javex his eyes. So yeah, my dog might have dirt in her ears, but you, Monsiour Doctor, are a living connect the dots model. So kiss my ever-loving arse.
But back to me, because it's all about me, as you know. I look like an egg. An egg with these odd bangs. I look like I came out of the birth canal, after a dozen attempts of the suction cups. Throw some slime on me and voila, I can be on TLC's The Baby Story, the 230 lb child of Neil and Shauna Horowitz, with the misshapen egg head because Shauna was too much of a pussy to push me out with any gusto. But I'll be the perfect addition to the family, with my older brother Efram, and my sister Hanna.
And I also look dweebish. Like those people we went to junior high with, whose parents made them wear running shoes with velcro instead of laces, rather than Nikes like everyone else, and who still tucked them in at 16. That's me, in a nutshell. I look like my name should be Roger.
And that is the day that was. I don't know how I will cope with this fucked up head. But, as Gloria Gaynor says, I will survive. And I mean, life could be worse. I am thankful for the petty bullshit, really, I am because the alternative, with all the horrible things people go through, is worse. But man, I look hideous, and that's a fact.
Anyway, I showed dear Rachel Chunk's hair vlog tonight and she laughed like hell, and really, this goes so in line with it, but alas, not enough time to buy a webcam. But the thought was there. And really, it's too ugly to show.
And fuck, I have bags under my eyes the size of my scrotum - I dunno what in the hell is going on there, but I am not used to looking my age. I am the type of person who got ID'd at 25 buying lotto tickets - at 30, seriously, at casinos in the States. So when at at birthday celebration at work yesterday for a coworker's 40th, and the question of "who is under 40 still" arouse, my secretary said "I don't think JT is", and people didn't immediatle gaffaw with "of course not!", well, I got paraoid. So I need to get sleep or do something with my scrotal eyes, or something. Something's gotta give. Maybe I'll become a vegan. Or just get some Kathy Griffin surgery and have a bundle of veins under my temples. Or something. But this bitch ain't gonna look old. Fuck that shit.
And that is the rest of the story.