Blow dry beauties

There is no cast of characters quite like sultry salon stylists. Beautiful and bitchy, pretty and pragmatic, talented with razors and sharp silver scissors. In the pageant of pictures paraded at Canadian competitions are marks of their styles in conceptual images.

I’ve already posted pictures of four models I shot for Julia Dyck, my long-time accomplice and former co-worker. Julia curled and primped and worked the blow dryer like a gun, prepping each model for my inevitable click. Last up are the final cast photos (seen here.)

The shots may be used in an upcoming contest, but don’t wish us luck, just book now—Julia’s a working stylist. You know the drill: dial nine five seven eleven hundred. Just don’t expect my voice at the other end of the line.

The Korean complex, day one

Ten matching towers poke out of the ocean. Ten more, twenty. Twenty more. The bridge stretches across a fog grey sky, misting then merging into slate dotted with boats.

The bus turns into Icheon. Two girls sleep in seats beside me, the younger clutches a purple blanket. My own eyes are peeled open.

The east boat house, Tomorrow City, and a local to dial the number. Nod head, smile, make grand, flambouyant gestures. Breakfast at the airport, afternoon somewhere, morning breaks a humid dawn.

The city scape doesn't stop, only breaks for mountains and water and small plots of crop. Hills of green wind round apartments stacked side by side, built up like piles of lego blocks neverending.

The car pulls up to a temporary home. Slide off shoes and walk in.

Holy F...

Toronto, empty no longer.

Dear Manitoba: in the words of the great teen lyricist Stephen Lee Klein, it's been a summer.

Make up and the made up

Once all the other girls had been glossed up, Aimee turned her face toward the mirror. At our request she puckered up and had her hair curled in to a pony tail. The camera loved her. She knew which way to turn and tilt, full lips and giant eyes.

I pulled the lens down, grinned and announced a wrap. Two cast poses and some candids are all that's left, coming soon.

hair by Julia Dyck and make-up by Aimee Cardinell. To book an appointment with Julia dial Vault at nine five seven eleven hundred.

Ballet in the park was beautiful.

Blondes, blues, and Bart Simpson tees

This is Tara. Before she was the beautiful blonde you see here she was angry young thing with a Chelsea. Back then Tara, Julia, and I used to attend punk rock shows in community centres. Before that, we used to hang out on benches at the mall.

This summer we’re all back together, cracking jokes about the past. Julia and I nearly pissed ourselves with happiness when we had an excuse to force Tara into a dress for this shoot. But I have to say, I felt better when she changed back into her Bart Simpson Tee. That last shot? That is the Tara I love.

You know it: hair by Julia Dyck and make-up by Aimee Cardinell. To book an appointment with Julia dial Vault at nine five seven eleven hundred.

He can't see the forest for the trees.

Sunnyside and other stories

A parade of boys on bicycles greets me as I pull up to the cottage, circling round my car like seagulls swarming the latest visitor to the beach. In the distance is their leader, the tallest of the bunch, who raises a hand up to greet me.

After hugs and hellos we prioritize a beer run, head into Winnipeg Beach to buy a silver beer bucket to sit in afternoon sand. Lie out a blanket and let the afternoon roast into warm fuzz at the bottom of our pilsners, shallow shores and sunburn.

Curry come dinner, all apple slices and sweet potato. Vodka espresso evening; sit round a table of rainbow chairs and a bonfire. Drink till it becomes a good idea to pull guitars out, shout mindless absinthe lyrics and strum the g chord.

Drop shorts and hurtle self off the blue-lit late night pier, crash into the blackness. Rinse, repeat, and howl at the moonlight. Stare into dead darkness, bush and endless water. See only a blank canvas that will not be empty, ever.