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©John R. Turner

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Out and About with Word and Image of Vermont

The Carriage House
The Carriage House on Spring Street is my hairdressing emporium. You may wonder why it's called "The Carriage House" when it obviously doesn't look like one. That's because it used to be located just down Elm Street in a building I guess once was a carriage house and is now occupied an osteopathic physician. I won't offer an estimate about which of these two enterprises adds most to human felicity but in the darkness of my soul I have my prejudice about it. In any case, I go to the Carriage House about once a month, where Tanja Senna does her best to keep me from looking a fright. If she doesn't succeed it's not her fault. She is a competent young woman who does all, in the way of hair styling for me, that any human could do. I often reflect that I used to take my daughters to a pediatrician in the same building. In those days I sat in the waiting room among fretful children and hoped that nothing was seriously wrong with either of my girls. My visits to the site now are considerably less stressful than they were then. In truth, they are the very opposite of stressful. I don't know of anything more delightful than having the top of your head fixed up by somebody else. It's a moment of bliss in a world that's, for the most part, considerably less than blissful. I'm usually the only man in the place, which doesn't bother me. I listen idly to the women chattering and am not bothered, either, by the realization that I could not talk in that fashion if my life depended on it. After a bit, my monthly hair do is over and I am forced back out into the cruel world. It makes me sad at first but, then, I realize I have something to look forward to.