It’s snowing again in Toronto. Or more accurately, it’s still snowing. It’s been nearly a week nonstop and we might get 30 more centimetres before it finally stops tomorrow. There is nowhere for this much snow to go in my part of the city, which is mostly condos and stores. I worry about seniors, people who uses mobility devices, parents with strollers. The sidewalks were already almost gone yesterday. I try to have faith in my neighbours. I know we’re good at helping.
Then I worry about what’s going to happen when all the snow melts. It’s a good place to put the worry I feel all the time. It’s a tangible concern. Feels less nebulous than the worry I feel about Trump, about the upcoming provincial election where I live, and then the federal election that will follow shortly after. I want us to do the smart thing, but I worry we won’t.
It’s hard to trust in humans lately. We seem to love doing the exact thing that works the most against our own self-interest. And even worse, somehow simply believing that everyone deserves to feel peace, safe and comfortable has become a radical thought.
I try not to navel gaze. I know I’m one of the very lucky ones. Still, yesterday as I was applying yet another layer of skin oil and vaseline to protect my face from both the cold and heating, the sun caught my hair in a way that made it look half grey. I was horrified.
I immediately message the salon at the top of my street to see if they had any appointments this week to add some highlights. He responds right away and tells me he’s free now, to come in if I want. I had no plans to go out in the endless blizzard, but vanity and boredom win out, so I gear up and trudge over.
When I get there, it’s just him. He tells me his assistant couldn’t come because of the storm and his other appointments cancelled. He’s grateful for my company and he’s going to give me beautiful highlights and a beautiful haircut. I tell him he’s the expert, he can do whatever he wants. He asks me to remove my glasses because they get in the way, and I'm plunged into a world of blur and fuzz for the next five hours.
As he’s mixing the colours and applying the foils, his phone keeps buzzing and ringing. I tell him to please answer, there’s no rush and there’s nobody else to take the calls. But I notice it doesn’t seem like anyone is trying to schedule appointments. He tells me somewhat sheepishly that it’s his birthday. He is 76 years old today. It’s people wishing him a happy birthday.
My dad cried easily as he aged. I always did too, but now it seems like the faucet is permanently turned on. I tear up realizing this man is spending his birthday on a weekend, at work, in a storm, and only with me.
I start asking him questions about his life, and this encourages him. As he applies the colour to my hair, and I am sat looking at a vaguely Ruth-shaped blur in the mirror, he tells me about his childhood in Calabria. How nobody knows how to make pasta properly in Toronto. How he eats enormous breakfasts in the morning and swallows a full tablespoon of olive oil before bed.
How he never thought he would still be working at 76, but that it’s not possible for him to retire. Covid took away 60% of his clients and now with things being so expensive, he’s losing even more. But that he can’t sacrifice quality for quantity, so the customers who remain are very loyal and it’s enough to keep him fed and a roof over his head. And that if he must work, he’s okay because he loves his work.
This makes me want to cry even more, so I ask him what he’s going to do when he’s done for the day to celebrate. He tells me that he’s a simple man, he likes cooking. He will probably make a soup with some bread. I offer to buy him a piece of cake or a gelato from one of the many patisseries and gelato shops just up the street. But he assures me he’s not much for sweets. Instead, he makes me an espresso. Something else nobody in Toronto does right.
At some point when I’m under the dryer, he’d ordered a pizza. He made it vegetarian and with just goat cheese because I had told him I don’t eat meat. He offers me a piece, and I don’t have the heart to turn it down. He had gone out of his way to get something he thought I would like, on his birthday, while he’s working.
After more than four hours, it’s time to rinse out the colour. He hasn’t cut my hair yet, but as he’s washing it he asks me with some judgement if I have been trimming it myself. Like trying to convince a dentist that you’ve been flossing, I know there’s no point in lying so I just nod ruefully.
“Please stop doing that,” he says. “Come in when your bangs are too long. I’ll cut them for free, but you need to stop making your hair so uneven. You deserve better.”
The tears make yet another appearance, and I just hope he hasn’t been noticing.
He tells me he’s going to cut my hair now, and that he’s just plugging in the flat iron. I protest that it’s not necessary - I’m just going right back out into a snowstorm. But he insists. It’s for him. He can’t leave the job unfinished.
He cuts my hair, blow dries it, styles it. Through the blur I sense that it might be a lot…lighter than when I came in. But I tell myself it’s just my warped vision.
He declares he’s done, dramatically removes the cape and hands me my glasses. I am shocked to see that even though it was just highlights, I am now somehow completely blonde.
‘Oh wow,’ I manage to stammer.
‘It looks so much better, you’re going to get so many compliments,’ he beams. ‘Your eyes are too cool and light for dark hair,’ he continues. ‘You should always have lighter hair.’
‘But that’s how the good lord made me’, I say. ‘Well, sometimes the good lord makes mistakes’. I don’t really have any argument for that. On this, he’s right.
As I’m getting my coat on, which he courtly helps me into, another client walks in. A teenager, he wants to buzz his head but his mom says no. They consult on how to make it short enough but not too short. How to make everyone happy. I’m relieved to see he has at least one more booking. Then a woman comes in to have extensions replaced. He’ll be busy until the evening when he closes.
I get ready to leave and joke that I won’t notice the grey anymore for a long time. He tells me I’m at most 20% grey, probably less. Everyone fixates on what they don’t like.
I give him a huge tip. I hope he will buy more than soup for his birthday with it, if he wants.
As I leave, he thanks for making his birthday much nicer than he thought it would be. I tell him to be safe and to be careful when he leaves as it will be dark and slippery. He thanks me again for worrying about him like a daughter.
I’m grateful for the snow as I cry all the way home.
I feel stupid for how much I cared about some grey hairs just a few hours earlier. I send him some selfies and say that he’s right, I’m getting a lot of compliments.