dirty day

Down east this was what is called a dirty day. I drove to Saint Martin's, but took no pictures. It was either raining hard or foggy.
This plaque was hanging on the hairdressers' wall. I had tentatively voiced the opinion (mistake, I never learn) that perhaps my son could use a comb. I didn't mention a haircut. His reply was that with my hair I really couldn't say anything. (That's the polite version - it was about never seeing my hair look good.) True, as soon as it reaches a certain length it sticks straight out in an unpredictable fashion. Before I went to my seminar in Halifax on Tuesday, I walked into a salon and asked for a haircut - a very short haircut. She obliged. I feel light headed.