(Prior posting from my old webspace)
Had myself an interesting day yesterday. To those that have read through my blogs, you’re well aware of my love affair with clothing stores.
There is that body count to confirm this.
Sales clerks, clothing racks, mirrors, and me sitting in the corner of the dressing room, flicking a light on and off whilst “Madame Butterfly” plays in the background seem to me to be a good indicator that I lose mental cohesion during such activities.
My second love affair outside of shopping is the trip to the hair stylists.
Now… I was sporting yet ANOTHER obnoxious pompadour. Damned hair just takes over and makes Elvis Presley and Conway Twitty jealous from beyond the grave, I swear! I can grow me some mean assed cock a doodle doo hair. Hardly flattering.
So, in the spirit of looking less than rockalicious for a party I am attending, I killed two people, I mean, birds, yeah that’s it, with one stone.
I went to the worst of the worst hair stylists, First Choice, and found an hour wait. Ugh. So, resigned to the ONLY other available option, I went to Wall E Mart.
I walked in, and after I loaded up on toiletries, I slowly did my walk of shame towards the “salon”. Now, fear is building in me, and I truly want to just have the walls swallow me up. I know I’m about to tangle with a person straight out of beauty school, and likely not at the top of her class, either.
I mean, it’s WAL MART!
So, I suck up my murderous thoughts for the moment, and sit in the executioner’s throne.
We discuss my hair, and she then proceeds to snip and slice away, in a very haphazard manner. I’m slowly wondering if there will be some way to wipe the blood up after she’s been put out of my misery.
But lo and behold… she finishes, and I actually don’t hate the result. Technique was a little odd, but the ending came out pretty good. Ok, so she’s still breathing, and has me impressed enough to actually buy purchase some shampoo that will likely last me into my white shoes and bingo playing years.
So, feeling a little confident, I then segue towards the next store.
Shoe shopping is truly a frustrating experience as well. You see, my feet, as nice as they look to some, are misshapen. I have a horrible time finding shoes to fit. My mother once commented when I was young that she’d just as soon fit the show boxes to my feet than try to find shoes that fit me.
So, I swallow my tears as I walk through the door, and note this very “odd” looking man approaching me.
This is the view I will describe to you: A total Guido, obviously a product of a drunken 1980’s tryst, dressed in his very best boy band clothes, with the most “waxed” eyebrows I have ever seen on a man. Instead of letting nature take it’s course (which would have made him almost handsome), he chose to wax away any trace of masculine pride he had with these “paisley like” strips residing above his brow bone.
I had to stifle a laugh as he got closer. Not only was he waxed up, but he had some MAJOR stubble going on. So you knew that he’d been at the salon, prettying up for the ladies.
Why on earth!
Well, Mr. Stalliano took a look, and put on his best sales face and walked me away from the racks of shoes that would not ever bring me happy feet, and proceeded to show me what I “could” have.
He approaches me with a pair of shoes that were indescribably geriatric in form and fit. I sort of looked at them and wanted to incinerate them with my thoughts. Ok, so door number one was a heinous failure.
He then brings to the party a pair I would never in a billion years consider EVER putting near my feet. They, quite frankly, looked like a black leather pair of cross country ski shoes. Square toed and ugly.
Due to my duck feet, he brought me over a size ten. Now, I have nothing against circus clown shoes, but these… NO!
So.. after parading around in them, hating them and wanting to make the human die on a pyre of kindling for suggesting such comic fare for my new “look”, I quickly asked for a size smaller.
Lo and behold, the damned things fit! And.. not only that, they looked half decent.
Guido lives to wax again!
So.. as I noted to myself that I scored two out of two, I then head to the biggest chamber of horrors of them all…Moore’s.
Now, I love being in my fourties. It’s a good emotional place for me, and I love the view. That being said, I have some issues with the window dressings surrounding my age.
1. I have to shop at Moore’s cos every other place on the planet will either have me looking like I’m heading out to a NASCAR event, or trying to pathetically hold onto my youth with age inappropriate clothing.
I’m the guy that fashion forgot.
2. I’m four feet tall and four feet wide, with stubby arms and legs. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING ever fits right.
So, I approach the doors, and walk into the gas chamber of horrors. As I stumble around numbly looking at the geriatric fashions available to me, noting that size 600 isn’t within the racks I’m scanning, a sales clerk notices my bewildered face and comes to my rescue.
He’s young, wearing what has to be the ugliest suit I have ever seen on a human being. He’s twenty something, but the suit looks like it came off of Frank Sinatra’s corpse. Not a good look for an Irish Canadian boy.
So, I let him aid me in my mission, and we come to a pair of flat fronts. Turns out they do have a pant t that fits an orbiting satellite. I put them on, and as quickly as I want to now just grab a Shop Vac, a Knife and some painkillers to suck the fat out of my asses, I surrender to the fact that this is what I get, and it’s not so bad, considering the body they are trying to outfit.
I then want to go find a vest. He’s suggested a blazer. I stuff down the frustration as he puts a sand colored coat on me. Despite the Joan Crawford shoulders, it’s not so bad, either. In fact, I look like a sand colored Transformer. I’ll take that over the Santa Claus look I wandered in with, any day.
So, now we have a shirt and tie to buy. Got a simple black shirt, blue and sand colored tie (to hang myself with when I get the bill), a belt and matching argyle socks.
I now have a complete look, worthy of my own funeral.
As I stand by the cash, waiting for my alterations to be completed, I segue into curious mode, figuring I haven’t mowed down anyone today, so why not explore.
So I ask about some Calvin Klein cologne on a shelf.
Fair warning.. if it has CK on the label, and you are not a Lebanese Guido driving a riced up Honda Civic, RUN!!!!
This stuff could take out generations of cockroaches, it was that noxious. As the sales lady and I both wiped the chemical gas effect from our eyes, and gasped for breathable oxygen, I vowed to make it my mission in life to never support the house of Klein. In fact, I think it’s my mission to hold him hostage and make him wear his own products.
So, all in all, it was a good day. I am still alive with normal blood pressure, no one suffered a horrifying fate at my hand, and I actually don’t look too bad in the choices I made.
Here’s to new beginnings.