Today is a dark day in Hong Kong.
Yesterday was haircut day.
Your humble scribe returned to the only barber in Hong Kong who has not yet butchered his hair.
No disappointment there, for your scribe...
But, your Heroine, Regina, has been waiting 18 months to return to Canada to have her hair cut.
(Canada, apparently, not only produces good husbands but also good hairdressers.)
Anyway, Regina is flying with a photographer into China this weekend and felt the mysterious need for a haircut.
Your scribe was sitting beside her, trying to follow a Chinese language food magazine, so he did not notice the horror on her face until it was too late.
This was, apparently, the first time she had ever had her hair cut only with a razor...
Regina told me this, through bloodless, taut lips when your scribe finally looked over at her.
The way she said this, you would think a bloody stranger had attacked her with an electric carving knife.
Her eyes flicked down towards the ground, soundlessly compelling me to do the same.
Your scribe looked down.
There was a sizable quantity of hair on the ground.
Also inner calm, equanimity, and hair-related happiness lay curled and dead on the floor...
...your Heroine was not resplendent in cheerfulness.
Your scribe has not included a photo of "the aftermath" with this post mostly because he values the continuing attached nature of his man parts, although Regina was fatalistic and (more) accepting of her hair this morning.
"It is only hair" she said.
She then followed with a doleful and dark "but it is the worst haircut that I have ever had".
"It will grow back" she continued, stoically.
"And I will get it fixed immediately" she finished, resolutely, as the roller coaster monologue concluded.
Last night was a dark night indeed, and disappointment had obviously not gone away by this morning.
Last night, your humble scribe saw the disappointment when he looked up from the chunks of hair to your heroine's face.
Seeing the dark skies dancing on the brow of your Heroine, your scribe thought he would take your Heroine out for some vegetarian food, to inflate her internal happiness coefficient.
And, oh my goodness gracious me, your scribe thought that he and your Heroine had hit culinary happiness pay dirt.
Your scribe thought that he had found the mother lode of vegetarian goodness, because the restaurant they entered proclaimed that it had vegetarian unicorn meat. (!) (!!)
Generally speaking, neither your scribe, nor your Heroine, will order unicorn meat.
I mean, unicorn is, I believe, a protected species.
Your Hero, Pommes, will eat unicorn meat, but Pommes can just be an animal sometimes.
Your scribe and your Heroine both believe that the slaughter of unicorns for their meat is plain wrong (although your humble scribe is quite keen on pigs, cows, ostriches, deer, moose, snakes, rats, crocodiles, fishies, most things, really, but not unicorns and also not sharks for shark fin soup alone).
But vegetarian unicorn meat, while rare, is acceptable, just like vegetarian shark fin soup is also acceptable.
Really, what could be better, your scribe rhetorically asked Regina as they pondered the dinner choices before them on the menu.
Your scribe thought that this fantastic find would take your Heroine's mind completely off of her hair, or lack thereof.
He was wrong.
Regina's eyes started digging through her head (her gaze had turned to arrows) and your scribe realized that he had to distract her attention.
Look, he cried, they have Fragrant Blossom Surprise, and a cold dish! (That is what it said, in English and in Chinese, "Cold Dish").
Well we ordered, and disappointment showered down on us again.
No, let me take that back, there was an amber then a black thunderstorm alert for disappointment, and both materialized, pouring heavily upon us.
The unicorn was simply big slabs of lightly warmed tofu, with tiny slivers of mock pork fried in Canola drippings, with a smidgen of black fungus on top.
The fragrant blossom was over-steamed broccoli with oyster sauce and straw mushrooms.
The cold dish was a cold dish.
With some cold tofu.
The tea? Hot, and wet, but not overly tea-like.
The cups runnethed over with hot, wet, Dee (for disappointment).
Today we hope for good things, but your scribe thought we should share everything with you, our closest confidante.
So seize the day, for you never know when misery will try to grab you by the throat and lop off your hair.
Chris, Regina, and Pommes (mit poutine)