This was the week that both Poppy and I had to have haircusts.

Mine was a pleasant occasion, as I have found a hairdresser I like – and who was completely unphased by me turning up at the wrong time. (One of the few good things about getting older is that people are much kinder about such moments of forgetfulness.)  Besides, with typical Gallic charm, he says, as he finishes, what lovely hair I have.

Poppy is much less pleased with her visits.  In fact she hates them. I have to sympathise, as  the woman who runs the salon de toilettage de chiens et chats is somewhat lacking in warmth, either to dogs or their owners.  Poppy emerged trembling and spent the rest of the day punishing me – following me around as if I might abandon her to torture again, and yet refusing to come close enough to be caressed.  Finally, after her supper she demonstrated her state of trauma by throwing up – as usual selecting a Persian rug for the act.

Still, it was definitely time as the following before and after photos show (both taken in Hans and Margaret’s kitchen, hence in poor light).


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