A Dog, Happiness and Even a Book
I have this haircut. It’s not difficult to maintain, but it does require that I do one thing. After I shower, I must comb out the bangs. Which explains why I didn’t shower today: I didn’t feel I could—my comb was in the garbage, after having been fished out of the toilet, where it had been dropped by the youngest member of my household, my son. So it was, that this morning, when his father realized that he was running late and that he couldn’t, as usual, do the daycare drop-off, that I went out into the streets of my oppressively stylish neighbourhood, unwashed and uncombed, pulling a sniffly-nosed four-year-old in a squeaky red wagon. With any luck, I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. We made it one and half blocks. It was in the sun on the corner outside of the drugstore that I was planning to hit for a comb as soon as it opened at 9 o’clock, that I saw her: my art crush, Heather O’Neill, walking a dog and looking gorgeous. I had to turn away. It was too dazzling, it was too much. And my question, for those of you who can relate to the experience of losing a comb and foregoing a shower only to turn a corner and run into a grinning idol, is how should this be handled? I'd like to take it as a good omen, a sign that we might all one day have a dog, happiness and even a book. I hope that this is not too presumptuous.