Spiders, and Barbers

So it’s Thanksgiving next week.

Well, to be technical, it’s American Thanksgiving next week. Canadian Thanksgiving, on the other hand, came and went in the first week of October, along with its typical absence of any fanfare whatsoever. You see, my countrymen have – since time immemorial – decided to forego the parades, family reunions and five-day weekends that seem to define turkey day here in the south (yes, that’s how we refer to you. All of you. “The south.”) to instead opt for a quiet dinner with immediate family. Thanksgiving traditions are similarly understated, with the only ones I can remember being those handprint turkeys – get a little wild turkey in me and I’ll paint your walls with ‘em – my perennial and, in hindsight, completely irrational avoidance of pumpkin pie, and the pre-dinner, round table discussion about what everyone in the family has to be thankful for.

Since I write like I love – boldly, in absolutes and with liberal use of colons – I’ll go ahead and speak for my entire country when I say this: the fanfare typical of Thanksgiving south of the border (you guys, not Mexico) is a mystery. Granted, this lack of understanding may have something to do with our total lack of pilgrims. The closest we’ve got is francophone fur traders, and my guess is that it’s easier to build a lot of fun, family-friendly traditions around a smiling group of settlers than it is a bunch of guys clothed in nothing but beaver pelts, swearing in French as they’re forced to once again portage their tabernac canoe.

I realize that all this calls into question why Canadians even have a Thanksgiving. Jenny, my co-worker and personal Jeeves (of the “Ask” variety, not the “Faithful Man-Servant”), claims Canadian Thanksgiving is a completely distinct harvest festival that takes place in October due to the earlier shift in seasons in the north, and that the “Thanksgiving” brand has simply been adopted over the years thanks to our cozy relations with the US of A. Since this sounds smart and contains many words, I am inclined to believe it. And since I’ve been living here among you southies for nearly a quarter of my life, I plan on taking my ridiculously long Thanksgiving break with pride. Which brings me, if you can believe it, to the actual subject of this post.

Haircuts.

Ever since I relocated here to the states, my trips back to Vancouver have been marked by a haircut a week or so in advance. While this is mainly so my loved ones won’t be taken aback at the beast man I’ve become following that industrial accident at the Rogaine factory, I’ve always felt there’s something to be said for puttin’ the ol’ best foot forward (my left one) when returning as a prodigal son. I figured that pretty much everyone out there went through with a pre-trip haircut but in a quick office poll, it turns out this is typical only of males. However, since my company can boast only a single female employee (who is Jenny, if you’ve been paying attention at all), I’m willing to admit a margin of error of +/- 100%.

Regardless, last Sunday I found myself making my typical trek to Floyd’s on Melrose to have shears set about my head. I like Floyd’s because they give you a back rub after your haircut’s done. Also because the stylists are funky without pretension, and sitting in their barber’s chair makes me feel like I’m at the cool table in my high school’s cafeteria. Granted, I’m paying for that privilege. But being cool in high school has a steeper price, says this observer.

I digress.

It was as I sat in one of said chairs, having my hair cut by a thirty-something of indecipherable origins, that I realized that I’m terrified of stylists and barbers. Like, “that clown doll from POLTERGEIST ” scared. What tipped me off was that when she pointed my chair 90 degrees away from the mirror and kept it there for a good 15 minutes – giving me a view of the lady next to me getting her hair dyed, the back wall and precious little else – I didn’t bother mentioning that my preference would be to have a view of what, exactly, she was doing to my scalp. It’s not that I didn’t trust her, exactly. It’s just that you’re literally handing your head over to a stranger when you walk into one of these places. So, not knowing if my suggestion for her to use the massive reflective surface in front of us to our mutual advantage would lead to a devastating “whoops” maneuver with the scissors, I decided to sit there in silence. And wait.

In the end, I have to say she did a great job – I am a beast man no more. And in the spirit of the coming holiday, for that I give thanks. But even moreso for the fact that I won’t have to go through any of this again until Christmas.