So I’ve been absent for a while.
Mainly because the thought that perhaps this little experiment wasn’t proving as successful as I had initially hoped was making itself quite at home in my head. After hemorrhaging most of my money away, I was left to subside on a fiscal trickle. Surviving on a diet of rice and barbecue sauce, my pitiful existence chased away any motivation I had for blogging or anything else other than a few half assed job applications on craigslist. It was then that The Haircut happened. The Haircut was at least turning point in my Canadian life because it allowed me to make rent. This was not because, as it does in every crappy chick flick you’ve ever seen, the removal of heroine’s hair results in a drastic life change which in turn results in the removal of the heroine’s clothes by Matthew Maconahay. The Haircut transpired because of an ad I saw on craigslist where a hairdresser was looking for a hair model and was willing to pay generously. Thanks to the miracle of photoshop and an old photo, I was golden. Doing little to mask her disappointment when I arrived, Hairbutcher proceeded to punish me with The Haircut for my visual trickery. My long brown locks were dispersed with, replaced instead with a kind of a short crop thing. The colour is indescribable; Hairbutcher mentioned something about it being golden like barley. You could, I suppose, liken it to the kind of barley that has been farmed fresh from the seared soils of Chernobyl because I doubt this colour has ever appeared anywhere in nature.
Rent paid, there was also the issue of eating. A trifle in the grand scheme of things, however, I had a feeling my parents would be awfully disappointed if I met by end via starvation. It was because of this that the next thing that plunged me into a further a depression occurred. I became a full time employee at Tim Horton’s. I can’t possible describe the horror of those two Tim weeks. I was subjected to ridicule and battery. The ridicule was mainly at the hands of my flatmates and the battery was in the form of a slap administered by my manager for eating glace out of doughnut dipper. Tim Horton’s employs, for the most part, non native English speakers so it was assumed that my grasp on the language was limited. Because customers frequently confused my ineptitude and general apathy towards the whole operation for someone who couldn’t string a sentence together, every order came with its own set of charades. My lack of job satisfaction manifested itself in a number of different ways, firstly I tried to make up for the fact that I was treated and paid so poorly by eating as many donuts as possible. This backfired as the only time when getting fatter serves as any sort of revenge tactic is when you use your newly acquired lard to sit on someone. The second and ultimately more enjoyable thing I did was write swear words on the donuts in glace. Thankfully, as important a skill as icing pastries with profanities is, I was offered another job, one where I didn’t have ask to go to toilet. Thus ended my dance with poverty (for the time being at least) and marked the beginning of some actual morsel of a life in Canada. Best of all, now I can actually afford a portfolio case. So enter round two of meeting CDs, here’s hoping I end up at the correct agency this time....
