The month of the shears.

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November… This is the month when hairs and couples split. The month when sudden sadness can creep on our happiness. The month where some are driven by the impulse to cut their bangs and others, to commit harakiri.

It all begins at dawn on the 1st with the walk of shame of vampire-whores hailing taxis with their make-up as vanished as their dignity. We go from Boooo! to Brrrrrr! overnight. After being goosed all evening, the birds now have goose bumps.

Yup. It’s time again for woolly jumpers and those little gloves purchased at Dollarama. More and more, the sun hides behind a veil of cheesecloth. Those magnificent orange leaves and cucurbits will turn to brown and announce the arrival of steel greys and dirty blues.

As we change the time, our attitude changes as well. Eyebrows frown, shoulders hunch. We didn’t vote for that. We try to breathe in the festival of colors, but gloom lurks at a quarter to five.

We pull up our collar where a blood stain was pinned to remember forgotten soldiers. They’re all dead. This is the month of the dead. This is the month where «Tying the knot» has a whole different meaning than in June.

Scorpions will blow out their candles sporting a pornstache for a prostate swollen by social media. For their part, the French Canadian old maids will celebrate Saint-Catherine’s day by biting the single bullet and chewing on tear salted taffy.

Christmas decorations are already illuminating the bottom of our wallets and cold sores are shining bright atop many lips. November is also the time when the last loons and the first grannies migrate south.

Soon the wind will blow. It will blow so hard, it will suck.  The wind will gush so strongly that pigs with camouflage pants will fly. Our teeth will chatter away at how awful the weather is. It will be a terrible gale force wind that slaps, slashes and whips. A bdsm wind on our vanilla asses.

Then, the first snow will make the magical thinkers spin their summer tires in the slippery streets. Pedestrians will walk slowly like newly born foals on the icy sidewalks. Only the children and the pure will tilt their heads back and stick out their tongues or crack the thin ice pane on the petrified mud holes.

With a little luck, we will stop the shears an inch from our wrist or our forehead. We will stop dead in our tracks before ending our life or ending up with a retard pixie cut. We have to understand that scissors are never a solution. Neither are razor bleeds. Neither are final liquors. Neither are suicide F-bombers. Neither are swan dives in waste water.

Let’s hope that the groundhog sees its shadow at the end of a lenient winter. Meanwhile, we will buy clips for our unruly mane, a cozy for our numb feet and we will survive the November mopes by following the Montreal Canadiens.

After all, maybe this is the year of the Stanley Cup … Wouldn’t it be a bummer to miss it?

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