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While in Montréal last weekend, I was able to find a local barbershop and pay a measly $7 for a haircut. Glad of the trim, I felt refreshed against the humid summer heat even though, I continued to be curious of how it may have turned out had I left it to grow out like an afro. My musings ended quickly when I passed a dark-skinned man with an afro, silhouetted against the rising backdrop of the Montréal Biosphere. I then realized I could never duplicate a mane like that one.

More recently, while out for a few after-work drinks on Friday, I found myself losing track of time and missing the last GO bus home. As people parted ways, I remained in the company of my friend Dinesh. He kindly offered his couch and we ended up taking a cab back to Rogers and Oakwood, better known to locals as Little Jamaica.

As most inner-city neighbourhoods, the streets appeared deserted and slightly eerie after midnight. With distant sirens reaching our ears, and occasional cabs zipping by as to quickly come in and out of the area, Dinesh assured me that I’d be fine if I stuck with him. Then he proceeded to recount the times when he’d been thrown through store windows during a street fight. Suddenly, the shadows in the alleys that appeared playful at first, now seemed to loom over us with hatchets and knives.

With only a few remaining bars still open, we went to his local pub to close out the night. At the bar, we were greeted with a broad spectrum of characters. The place was empty, save a few patrons. As you walked through the door, the dark green marble-topped bar ran alongside the left-hand side. The place itself was cozy and ran long and narrow. Halfway down as you walked through the pub, a more spacious area opened up with some nondescript plastic tables and chairs. At the back, two large black speakers sang out a melody of island tracks.

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I went to Malone’s last weekend with some friends. Malone’s is a pub down by Kits beach. It has a large patio which is usually packed during sunny days. We walked up to the hostess and asked to put our names down for the patio. She took down my name, and we proceeded inside to wait.

After about half-an-hour, I came out to check on our status. I stood behind the hostess and looked down over her shoulder at the list of names. It read:

…
Steph – 2 people – skirt, tanktop
Erin – 3 people – blue shirt
Tan – 3 people – Asian guy, grey shirt (balding)”

“Balding?!” I said. The girl spun around startled, and professed it wasn’t her that wrote it. I laughed and turned around to look in the bar to find primarly Caucasian patrons. It seems, it would have been difficult to spot me, the only Asian guy in the bar. And in case there was more than one Asian guy in this bar named Tan and wearing grey shirts, I was the balding one.

What ever happened to, “Tan – 3 people – striking physique and charismatic”? Or “Tan – 3 people – slightly mysterious, smokey bedroom eyes”? Would none of these other appropriate descriptions suffice? Of course, I am not one to claim any expertise in the field of hostessing, so she could be doing her job spot on. I suppose that if I ever were a hostess, I would also choose less flattering descriptions, if only to make my job that much more enjoyable. I mean, if you’re going to go half-way, you might as well go for broke.

Jen – 3 people – red hair, most likely a hooker
Steve – 4 people – ugly as sin
Jack – 2 people – weighs 4,000 pounds, will probably eat the entire restaurant. “