Grooming

Socially awkward wasn’t a phase you heard of you grew up in the 70’s and 80’s. If you had such traits, you were simply known as a “weirdo”. Your parents told you not to play with the “weirdo”, a tactic which if used now, would see you at the centre of a huge Facebook School Community page pile on, and if it was a slow news day, you might rate a mention in The Daily Mail.

Personally, I am plenty of things. But these are things that I am trying to address with a varied degree of success. Sensitive, anxious, overthinker, oversharer and occasionally, over it.

I don’t believe that I am socially awkward, but recently I did something awkward socially, and I now know the difference.

As you know, recently we moved to the most outer burb of Sydney after living in the city. Living in the city isn’t for those who are trying to maintain a sense of calm in their life. There are many things that provide a drip feed of continual irritations, but the one I want to speak on today is dog groomers.

It’s been decades since the explosion of the cavoodle, a designer mongrel that bought with it the need for frequent and intense grooming. Therefore, competitive grooming came about. Who was the best groomer, what was availability like, mobile or in studio, did your dog get a bow? Was it an expensive bow, or one of the shitty cheap ones?

Dog groomers became the “celebrity eyebrow artists” that were everywhere in the Noughties.

I could talk about this for days but I am getting way off track.

Until recently (RIP Isobel forever 9) we had a Maltese cross. She was white and silky but when she wasn’t white and silky, she was beige and FULLY MANKY. And slightly on the nose. Which wasn’t her fault really, but a result of FULLY MANKY unattended hair. So when we moved we needed to get a new groomer so other dogs didn’t tease her.

I joined local Facebook groups to ask for Dog Grooming recommendations. I would like to think that this was a simple request. Little did I know that I had inevitably flipped a switch on long standing turf wars, grooming factions and dirty deeds.

Eventually I hooked up with a lady called Deb whose lack of banter and initial charm was made up for the fact that she was reliable and on time.

Deb had been grooming dogs for over 30 years and saved all her niceties for her canine companions, perhaps didn’t care so much for humans.

Which I kind of get.

Once a month, I would get a text message that simply read “dogs tomorrow.” I would meekly ask” what time” and she would respond with a single number.

9

This of course led me to believe that she hated my guts, that I had done something wrong. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to be Besties. God Kayte, so needy.

But it took about 10 months for us to get into a comfortable groove, a professional relationship which consisted me handing her a manky mutt and 30 minutes later, her handing handing back a fresh dog. Of course, sans bow because we live in the western suburbs where I suspect such frivolities would be unacceptable. But now that I’m thinking about it, I could be very wrong on that.

After Isabel passed away, we didn’t really need Deb to wash Stanley. For Stanley is a Chihuahua about the same size as a shoebox and not manky but by this stage had become attached to Deb I was willing just to keep going with our arrangements.

Deb would arrive on schedule, park her pooch Mobile out the front of our house and knock on the door. Every single time Deb came I would offer her a coffee or a cold drink or perhaps a snack. Every single time she would refuse all offers of hospitality. I suspect there is some Greek ancestry running through my heritage.

“Eat a little something….”

But Deb wasn’t there to fuck spiders. Deb was there to wash Chihuahuas.

Deb’s last visit was different to all others. She turned up, refusing all offers of food and drink. She then handed me a long extension cord which I plugged into the hallway socket. Dog exchange ensued and I got on with my morning.

About half an hour later, Deb had finished grooming Stanley. She was at the front door. I walked towards her, thanking her so much for doing such a wonderful job.

It was at that point that Deb stuck her hand out to shake mine. Which I thought was strange, and formal. But I’ve also kind of felt it was a bit of a breakthrough in our relationship. Perhaps we were moving from professional to Personal. It did feel weird as I stood in the hallway shaking Dad’s hand. Something about it just felt so wrong.

So I went with my instinct and I grabbed Deb into a bear hug, a long,lingering warm embrace and as I patted her back, I said to her…

“I think we’ve moved beyond handshakes now Deb…”

Then it got really awkward. Time stood still. In the distance a baby cried for its mother. Deb was tense. It was like hugging a plank.

She pulled away and quickly pointed at the PowerPoint. She didn’t want to shake my hand at all.

And then I died. Please, no flowers.

The end.