All play! You title this one. I don't know WHAT to call it.

With Canadian money burning a hole in my pocket, I ventured back out into society today. I began with breakfast at "L'Orange Pressé." It's a charming little restaurant on Avenue Mont-Royal, about a mile from where I live. Embracing my Canadian experience, I thought it would be fitting to order bacon and crepes with maple syrup. They were substantially better than any I've ever had in the U.S. Long live stereotypes!

With this lovely dining experience at this quaint restaurant in mind, I can't possibly express how bizarre the next event was. After paying, I asked where the restrooms were and was directed upstairs past cute little French-looking teapots. However, upon arriving upstairs, I was met by the gazes of about 10 Native American people, all of whom looked to be at least 150 years old, sitting at slot machines. Huh? It was as if I'd entered the Twilight Zone. They all stopped playing at the exact same time and turned around in their swivel chairs to look at me. Time froze. I froze. Never in a million years did I expect slot machines to be up there, making all their slot-machiney sounds. All eyes remained focused on me as I crossed the room. It was so truly surreal in the upstairs of this quaint French restaurant.

After that, I took a grand walking tour. In keeping with yesterday's "10" theme, I just checked Mapquest, and I walked well over 10 bliss-filled miles today. Although I didn't plan this (especially since temps are in the 30s), I ended up exploring Mile End, Little Italy, Little Portugal, and several other Littles. I walked past my mountain three times. I love walking. I took only a few pictures, but you can see them here, if you'd like.

My only BAD decision of the day was to get a haircut. I haven't gotten one since July, so I figured it was about time. The place was expensive and the guy scheduled to cut my hair was attractive, so I figured it was a good recipe for a nice cut. I told him I'm growing it out to donate it again, so I just wanted him to clean up the layers a little and leave the length about the same. He responded, "Okay, just a refresh." I agreed. Simple, right? Wrong. He proceeded to randomly grab a large chunk of my hair and CHOP. I yelped, "STOP!" Too late. I reminded him I'm growing it out and advised him that that is too short. He shrugged it off and said, "No it's not." WHAT?! Was he serious? What was I to do? It's not like I could leap out of the chair with my hair all wet and half chopped off, without knowing where I could go to get it fixed late on a Sunday afternoon in a foreign city. By the same token, while I was vehemently objecting to his lunacy, I realized it would be in my best interest not to anger the man with the scissors. He continued to justify his craziness as his cutting tool went to town on my head, with me imploring him to "keep it like it was, s'il vous plait...s'il vous plait." When he was done hacking and drying, he brushed my hair forward over my eyes, grabbed hairspray (which I haven't used since I was 18) and sprayed so much I had a coughing fit. I couldn't even see with the concrete hair helmet in front of my eyes, which in its own way, was a blessing at the time. The final result? I have the harshest looking layers I've ever had, a cut that's not even remotely like what I requested, and a hairdresser who's undoubtedly wondering where his tip is. I sprinted out of there. Unless there's a follicular miracle tonight while I sleep, I may end up forgoing my planned hair donation and getting the rest chopped to chin-length tomorrow to even it out. It's the last thing I want to do, but it may be my only option. Short hair might be better than stupid hair. (Wish you were here to provide a much needed second opinion.) I realize this is a very small issue in life--it's only hair--but (sob, whimper), simonac.