Ingrid Wolfaardt

Grooming is an age-old occupation dating back to the Egyptians, black kohl and milky baths that is to be believed if you’ve seen Elizabeth Taylor doing her breathless breathtaking thing on the screen.

Grooming in our home is high on the agenda. My daughters learnt to titivate, not from their mother but from their grandmothers who would and still do announce as though it is something to be proud of, that they would be retiring from the company present to “put on their faces,” which might sound macabre to the uninitiated-I can only describe it as the closest thing to tribal war-paint, you don’t go out into the public arena without it.

Their father is also a man who pays attention to smelling delicious, being shaved each day, having neatly trimmed nose hairs, fingernails and shirts with all their buttons and won’t be caught dead with holy socks whereas I am known for being lacking in all these departments. Even today the children recall with horror as though they have lasting scars from it how I allowed them to wander the hills and dales of our farm, day to day in a state that could cast them for a starring role in “Fiela se kind”, the make-up and wardrobe dames could have taken a prolonged smoke break on set as they wouldn’t have needed to do anything to them so perfect were they for the role of “bos” urchins.

So, now that I have been formally presented with a Chihuahua by our daughter – I am the new owner of this little dog (that has been sleeping in my chambers for the last two years by the way…) I decided that he needed to get with the family program.

I found a parlour that could give him a make over-he probably could be called the roughest looking Chihuahua in town, the camel man of his breed as his hair is long and tatty. He thinks he is a Rottweiler in disguise and is known to regularly nip the heels of unsuspecting visitors, while he is the fittest four-legged dog in the mosquito weight division, walking the mountain, no matter the weather, this is no spoilt poochie pooch ala Paris Hilton this is Rambo we talking about, baby. Other dogs he spits on…

SO.

The parlour was located on a farm half way to Wellington. On the gate it announced that if this gate was closed and you dared venture into this property you would basically be committing a kamikaze act and from the face, drawn on the board I believed this, making doubly sure that the open gate we drove through was really wide open. There were black hens with chicks in the road and an assortment of cats and no sign of the monster so we parked in front of the door of the parlour and made a quick dash just in case I had misunderstood the signage and it was the other way around. (Dogs seem to like to nip me too from behind, on the behind, so I’m extra cautious.)

Christine, Fafa’s new hairdresser was sitting, with an arm in plaster, surrounded by a what of dogs? They couldn’t be called a pack, that would be too strong a word for this mixed bunch. The entire room looked like the set of a Charles Dickens movie, Oliver came to mind, as old, faded, tattered towels of all colours were hanging from the ceiling, from the furniture, everywhere in fact, drying, while a woman had a dog in a vice-grip and was shaving him from the nevers region up.

Better to leave him, was Christine’s advice and so I closed the door after giving her and vice-grip a lecture on Rambo’s bad attitude which I feared would surface the moment the door was closed behind me. Owners were advised to leave during the colour-me-beautiful session and I remembered this from my ballet teaching days, parents have a particularly bad influence on children so I left with much trepidation to return an hour and a half later to see Rambo, unrecognizable with his summer, number one cut and a bright yellow ribbon in his hair, playing happily with the other pooches.

From all the attention he has generated with this new look of his I suspect he can’t wait to go back to Christine for a follow up, when you’ve looked so good once, one not only gets hooked on all the compliments one needs to keep it up.

For R60.00, I think it’s a bargain.
Thumbs up for Christine and company, now it’s only moi who must get with it.