Sure they're real

If I were rich.
The plan has always been well established. I’d learn to speak Spanish, invest heavily in dark chocolate and take up the harp — and not one of those lame, child-could hold onto ‘em harps, one of those really big celestial ones.
Anyone can learn the guitar or the flute, and don’t get me started on the piano, but so few have the means to purchase and store a gigantic harp. And fewer still, I imagine, would be able to procure harp lessons from a harp virtuoso.
Nothing quite says ostentatious like a giant harp in the living room. You can take your saxophone and shove it Kenny G, I’ve got me a damn harp!
Along with my language skills and my harp-playing skills, I’d also take up another skill, one that I’ve always wanted to master.
Hairdressing. Or styling. Or whatever they’re calling it these days.
I want to pump all the colour around in the weird, flat-bottomed, handle-having bowls; I want to wield that trimmer with verve. I want to flip those little foil pieces to the ground with gusto and I want to shout “Voila!” as I turn my once ugly duckling toward the mirror, revealing the masterpiece I have created.
I think I’d be great at it. Have always thought so.
Until recently, however, when my view of hair stylists, and women in general, came tumbling, tumbling, down, down, down.
A profound feminist, I was reminded of late why it is that we’re still not where we need to be. Reminded, as Sandra Bullock was in Hope Floats, that oftentimes members of our own sex are out there, lurking in the shadows, ready to betray us.
Ah, good show.
I recently found myself sitting poised in one of my favourite places — the uppy-downy chair at a hair salon. I love the smells, the lighting, the regalness that is getting your every follicle tended to by a skilled professional.
The woman tending to my much-maligned coif shampooed and scrubbed, toweled and tousled.
And then she began to speak.
That was the end of my great salon experience.
The woman was younger than myself, a mother, and en route to becoming a wife.
Having recently got over the ridiculousness that is wedding planning, I offered her a few tips. I kept the “Don’t do it,” tip to myself, I’ll have you know.
And then she said:
“Yeah, weddings are a lot of work. My boyfriend said he’d buy me a boob job if I agreed to go to Vegas and get married.”
She went on: “I said, ‘Whatever, you’ll buy me a boob job anyways,’ snorkel, snorkel.” (I used the term “snorkel” to linguistically describe the sound her laugh made. It wasn’t so much as a laugh as a grunt/snort/giggle. Or maybe I’m lying and her snorkel sounds just make for a better story.
But back to the boobs.
What does she get out of it other than a really painful surgery and maybe a few casual glances cast her way by pervy men with whom she doesn’t intend to begin a relationship?
And what does the guy get? Well, he gets it all, now, doesn’t he? He gets the wedding in Vegas and the fake boobs to match.
If this were just one instance of a near stranger confessing to me that her boyfriend had offered to buy her a boob job, I might let it go, take it under advisement and assume that she’s just one escapee from the idiot farm.
But I’ve heard this “buy me a boob job” comment from several women of late.
Boob jobs, it seems, have become the latest craze, replacing ear piercing, perms and acrylic nails.
Sure, it might be a bit painful, but could you imagine how great they’ll look in a sweater?
They are no longer random body parts, rather, they’re accessories, purchased with no more thought than a really great purse.
And another thing — can you play the harp with a set of really big ones?
And P.S. if you do have a harp, and carry it along with you, nobody’s going to be looking at your girls.