Sticky Beak
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The Skinny
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...life in small Northern towns, working for assholes, boys who refuse to become men, synthetic personalities, anorexic models and their link to emotional scarring, bad marijuana trips, crazies on BC Transit, beer, piece of shit cars, living out of a suitcase paycheck to paycheck, unrequited love, Seinfeld, minimum-wage jobs, broken New Year�s resolutions, and over-limit Visa accounts.
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"And you want to be my latex salesman..." My worst fears have been realized; the return of the uniform from Hell. I was issued a glowing yellow-orange T-shirt today which is to be worn tomorrow as an introduction of Bucky's new Tangerine Frappachino. Vunderbar. To drive the knife in a little deeper, the shirt I was issued is a medium. Yeah, right. Maybe if I shaved off my boobs. "Uh, this isn't gonna happen," I told the assistant manager. "The last time I wore a medium I was 13 years old." 'Too bad, so sad' is essentially the response I received. Hmmm. I tried the thing on when I got home this afternoon and.... yup. I look like a yellow submarine. Well, if Bucky's wants to pour me into a fluorescent yellow T-shirt and throw me out at the public as an experiment to see how it affects their sales, more power to 'em. I'm already daydreaming about giving my notice. To get through each day I constantly remind myself that I'm another 25 cents closer to Australia... Australia. Intersting how life works, isn't it? Two of my best friends have emmigrated to Oz, and now I too have this connection with it. I'd never had any desire to visit Australia prior to Clint's wedding last April. I guess I figured that if I were going to spend that kind of money on a trip, I'd like to go somewhere a little different than North America; somewhere that English isn't the first language and the majority isn't caucasian. When I did arrive in Oz last year, I was floored by how beautiful it is. I never expected it to be so green and lush... I suppose I had images in my mind of dry outback towns and Ayer's Rock. It's a bit too hot in the summer for my liking... Not to mention the foreign concept of sunshine. When Clint and Roz picked me up at the airport I was absolutely glowing white. Rozzy stood next to me and when I hiked the leg of capris up to compare the colour of our skin, she jumped up and down clapping her hands giggling, "Do it again! Do it again!" I was invited to Clint and Rozzy's wedding as one of Clint's groomsmen. Considering a) how many friends Clint has around the globe and b) the fact that I don't sport a penis, this was quite a surprise and honour for me. The morning of the big day started out like any other; Dana and Greg prepared breakfast, we lazed around, played some crib, and Greg drank a couple beers. Around 10AM I pulled my clothes out and set to ironing. Using the little travel iron that I'd brought with me, I ironed my capris and set them aside. I had just purchased a top from one of the local 'fat farm' stores because I wasn't excited about the clothes I'd brought over and despite my obese condition, I wanted to do Clint and Roz proud. Apparently the blouse was not 'iron friendly', but of course I wouldn't know this because I never read the fecking labels. The result? A hole in the shape of a small iron on the right shoulder of my new top. AWESOME. The top had 2 layers to it, the bottom layer - the one with the hole - was satin and the top layer was sheer with patterns on it. I assessed the damage, and while I would look tacky as hell, I decided that there was no option other than to wear the shirt and pray that the patterned sheer would cammoflauge well enough that no one would notice. Since the wedding's not until 2pm, we laze around for a couple more hours before thinking about getting ready. I'm not entirely sure why, but for some reason at noon I decide that I need to be a chick and curl my hair... straight hair just isn't going to cut it for Clint's wedding. I told the boys I was going to blast up to the mall to pick up a curling iron. "Photographer's coming at 1:30, Hol," Clint warned. Yeah, yeah... no problem. The mall's only a 5 minute cab ride away, I'll nip in, buy the rod and come home - 20 minutes tops. Right. I was headed to the Wal-Mart when I passed a salon that looked totally empty and the thought crossed my mind, "Why spend $20 on a rod that I'll never use again (because of the voltage difference)? (...glance at the watch - 12:10...) I'm sure this place can squeeze me in and give me a few curls..." I popped in, told them I had a wedding to go to in an hour & a half, and asked if they'd be able to curl my hair - just enough to put a bit of body into it. Yeah, sure no problem. I impressed on the girl who was suiting me up that I had only 40 minutes to spend in the chair because I had to get back for photos, and she assured me that this was plenty of time. Then she pulled out the rod. The curling iron she selected was approximately the size of my pinky. And I have a lot of hair. So instantly, I'm a little concerned. "Does your hair hold curl?" she asked, to which I responded "Yeah, with product." She now takes hold of maybe fifty strands of hair, grabs a can of aerosol hairspray, holds it four inches from my hair and... shhpppppppppppppssshhhhhhhhh... coats it for a good 15 seconds before applying the rod. Oh shit. I think I may be in trouble here... And now I see that she's never used this curling iron before, either. It's an old professional-style rod that has no spring, so requires a special technique to keep from losing the hair. My stylist does not have this technique. 12:40. Half of my head is now in curls. Tight curls. Afro curls. I sat in the chair staring at myself like a deer in headlights. I'm past the point of no return, here... I can't get up and walk out, I've already paid $60 for this monstrosity. And the Canadian in me refuses to complain or make any indication that I'm less-than-thrilled with the way this coiff is turning out. "Is there maybe a different iron that you could use?" I asked, seeing that she was still having serious issues working the rod. "No... they're all packed. We're moving shop tomorrow." This is when I look around at my surroundings. Everything in the salon is packed with the exception of the few tools that are being utilized in the destruction of my hair. 1:05. Still nowhere near completion, I gently remind Mrs. Edward Scissorhands that I absolutely have to leave by 1:20 in order to make it back to the house in time for photos. "Yup (POP! goes the bubble gum), no problem. Plenty of time..." Finally, at 1:30, she sprays the last of the aerosol into my hair and releases one last tight, granny curl. Jeezus H. Mary & Joseph. Now that's an afro. I was now the proud owner of a perfectly round helmet head. POOF! I don't have time to be horrified at what I see staring back at me in the mirror, so rip the apron from around my neck, grab my purse and run flat out through the mall frantically pulling at the nest of curls protruding from my melon. I sprinted up to a taxi, jumped in and yelled to the driver, "1 Ilaroo Crescent, GO! GO! GO!!!!" He must have sensed my urgency because we peeled out of the parking lot, two-wheeled onto the highway and pulled up to Clint's house in 3 minutes. 1:35. Shit! The photographer's already here... I ran into the house, welcomed by Clint, his parents, the other 2 groomsmen, and the photographer. "FUCKING HELL. Give me two minutes, two minutes." And with that, I went into my bedroom, closed the door and started hyperventilating-crying. Clint's mom knocked and opened the door, gently asking if there was anything she could do to help. "Don't worry," she said, "I used to be a hairdresser, remember? We can fix this, no problem. Do you have an elastic or a barrette or anything?" So Robbie and I went into the washroom and stared down the beast in the mirror. "How about this?" she asked, as she pulled a small amount of hair to the right side of my head and fastened an elastic around it. Perfect. Now, instead of Buckwheat, I look like Paula Abdul. Fuck it. "It's definitely better than it was, for sure." By now the photographer has left because it's already 1:45 and we've got to head to the beach for the wedding. Through a flood of tears, with a Paula Abdul pony-tail sticking out of my head and a hole in my blouse, I apologized profusely to Clint for ruining his photo session and being such a chick. "Don't worry about it, man!" he says, grinning. Trying to put the helmet out of my mind and focusing on Clint and Rozzy's moment, I donned my sunglasses and joined the rest of the groomsmen in our walk to the beach. When we arrived, I was assigned the task of handing out programs to guests as they came down the path to the beach. The very first person that appeared was a right-proper bitch I'd met at Rozzy's stagette a few nights earlier. Crass, obnoxious, and loud - even compared to me - this chick is also quite... portly. Keeping all of this in mind, imagine my horror when I see that she's sporting the exact same blouse as me, sans ironing hole. Excellent. Now everyone will know I bought my shirt at the fat farm. Maybe Clint had ulterior motives when he asked me to stand-up for him. Maybe I was intended to be the comic relief for the day??? Well, god forbid I should let anyone down... Only me. Only me. |