Foiled. Again. And the Troll.

It's a long story, so I will try to be succinct.

I am at the hair salon, processing.

Note: Processing, for the uninitiated, is a process of looking ridiculous with aluminum foil-wrapped hair. And waiting. As I said, it is a process.

Hub walks in. With Rubi, the dog. Rubi sees me and begins to 'swim' in midair as a symbol of her excitement. Of seeing me.

Note: Contrary to popular belief, Rubi was not doing the 'dog paddle'. She was splayed out in airplane mode in her 'swimming' position. This position more appropriately resembles the 'breaststroke'.

Because I am trying to be succinct, I will not explain why the Hub was walking into the hair salon with my dog. But I now need to put her in the Aging SUV and find a shady parking place for her comfort and well-being, yes.

Because I am dressed in two black smocks with about 8000 foils flapping around, I am pleased to find a shady parking area on the end of the building. I settle Rubi in, give her a drink, roll down the windows a bit, glance at the clock and see that luckily, I still have a few minutes to spare until my hair is over-processed.

Note: Processing is very finicky, yes.

Across the parking lot, I am being watched by a Dude. Standing by a garbage can. With a broom. And a blue shirt clinging a bit to his big belly. His hair is graying and receding. I know what you're thinking: This guy is digging the Trophy Wife.

Him: Hey! Are you in the salon?

Note: I wonder if his first clue was the double-smocks with the salon name emblazoned across the front or the 8000 foils flapping around?

Me: Yes.

Him: You can't park here. Can't you read?

Me, pointing to sign: It says Customer Parking. I look down at my smock and shake my head alluringly, kind of. I'm a customer.

Him: I'm sick of you people thinking you can park here. And then you get all rude. This is for customers of this building only.

Me: I'm confused. And processing. And not caring for his tone, at all. The parking lot is nearly empty. He is reminding me of the troll under the bridge, yelling at the Billy Goats overhead. Well, I say, I have my dog and do you think I could ...

Troll: He has dropped the broom. And steps toward me, menacing. Look, Lady. He does not say Lady as if I were a princess and he is my handsome prince. He says Look, Lady in a condescending growl, emphasizing the 'Lady' part in a most unpleasant fashion. Not my problem, he is saying, you need to get the h*$! out of here.

Me: I am mad now, and I am feeling fiery. I think the my hackles are rising, whatever that means, and perhaps the electrical impulse of the hackling has caused the 8000 foils to flap more emphatically. Back off, Troll, I am saying. I have a core and I know how to use it.

Note: Oh wait. I think maybe I was just thinking about saying that.

Me: Actually, I say I am sorry, I didn't know. You don't need to be rude, Sir.

Troll: His voice is rising, both in pitch and fervor. He is saying ugly things about me and my dog and my Aging SUV and he thinks I am lying, which is very upsetting and I'm trying to get in my car and he's still shaking his broom.

To be succinct: The Troll is an Idiot. He makes Wild Turkeys look like Einstein. I end up parking way down the street and running full speed in my flying foils where the assistant was running up and down the street trying to find me, because the processing timer is ringing ringing ringing.

My hair turned out great.

Moral: A Trophy Wife never bows to the lowliness of a Troll.

The End.