Canada 2025, Part V: The American Tax

 Monday, the 5th, was our first weekday in Canada. As such, it was the first day I could attempt to get my cash exchanged at the credit union up on the island.

This was a point of contention between the wife and myself; she doesn't understand my cash mentality when I'm traveling, as she'd much rather just use a card for everything. I don't like that because I have to track it to know how much I'm using versus limits/balances, etc, and it puts us further into debt. With cash, the money is already spent and accounted for. She was also embarrassed that I would point-blank ask places (like Walmarts or grocery stores, etc) if they would exchange the cash at their customer service counters. 

Like, I don't care, these people in quiet conversations at service counters can know I'm a "stupid American" and tell me no, whatever; it doesn't matter to me. If they don't do the exchange I don't care, it doesn't matter to me, I'll move on to the next place. I don't find it embarrassing at all. I am a customer looking for a service.

We needed the cash; it wasn't optional. Daisy had scheduled a hair appointment with the salon in Nova Scotia days before we even left Nebraska. That appointment was for Monday evening. The salon (really just two guys who operate out of a storefront in an old house on the Port Hawkesbury waterfront) is cash only and always has been. It's also really expensive. They told her it would be $59 for a basic cut, which I've always found to be steep.

Remember this price, it'll become important later. 

Anyway, bright and early Monday morning, we went to the credit union on the island to see if I could get the cash exchanged. They said they'd gladly do it but could only do up to $200. 

"I'm cool with that," I said. They happily and kindly took $200 of my American money, converted it to CAD, and gave it back to me. That day, the exchange rate meant my $200 turned into $276 CAD. They (I'm sure) took a photo of me with their bank cameras, got my phone number, and used my passport (which I took with me that day in case anyone decided to grief me) as my ID for the transaction. The girls there were pleasant and I thanked them profusely, since they'd been the only folks who was able to do it.

Once back in the Bronco, I gave Daisy the amount of cash she needed for the haircut and tip, and we moved on with our day. 

Note: I likely could have gone to another branch of that same credit union and converted the rest of my cash to CAD either that day, or later in the week -- but I don't know what their limitations are and I didn't want to be red-flagged in their systems for doing it at multiple locations. Again, American here, let's not try to draw any more attention to us than necessary, etc. So, for the remainder of my time in Canada, I operated with the $200 or so in Canadian cash I had left after giving Daisy the necessary money for her haircut. Turns out I'd need it a lot less than I thought, but we'll get to that.

Anyway. We ran a few more errands, checked out the new Dollarama (in the same plaza as the grocery stores and grandma's drugstore) and picked up a few things here and there, and spent some time with the grandmother before picking back up and driving back up to the island a second time for Daisy's haircut in the evening. 

Look, I don't pretend to know what little Canadian cities and towns are really like, even though I've been through a number of them at all hours of the day and night all throughout Atlantic Canada, but I can tell you that on this particular Monday evening, Port Hawkesbury was basically shut down. There was almost nobody out on the roads moving around, nobody really on the residential streets, and aside from the sloshing of the water against the boats and the shore, it was unnervingly quiet. I wouldn't have given this a second thought if it hadn't been early evening (in the 5pm hour) and I still would have expected there to be a good bit of hustle and bustle around the town. Yes, it was a school night, but...people still get off work in the 5pm hour in Canada, don't they?

I mean, I guess I wouldn't really know. 

Anyway, we pulled into the parking lot of the hair salon and went inside. The hairdresser was finishing up the guy right before us, and he would finish quite quickly, leaving us the only ones in the salon (presumably, Daisy was the last appointment of the night). 

Now, mind you, this guy has cut Daisy's hair, as well as her mother's, numerous times. However, I wouldn't necessarily expect him to remember either of them; I'm sure he does a thousand haircuts a year, some people multiple times. No way I'd expect him to remember Daisy or her mother. So he greets her like a stranger -- pleasantly and sweetly, because it's his business, etc. And Daisy was her wonderful self as always. 

I wasn't exactly paying close attention to their conversation; I was reading something on my phone and in the lobby about 30 feet away, but I heard snippets of the small talk they were having. There was the usual talk about the weather differences between here and Nebraska as it pertained to gardening, etc. He found it interesting we were visiting from the states, Daisy made sure he knew we were not Trump supporters (i.e. we were safe, as he was a gay man running a hair salon after dark) and somehow the conversation got onto the topic that we were there in Canada for Daisy's cousin's wedding, and it had been specified that it would be a "child free" wedding -- meaning leave the kids at home, get a babysitter, or don't come, etc. She mentioned that our own wedding was a child free wedding -- and it was, aside from the family kids who were actually in the wedding. The hairdresser thought this was rude, and said so. He also said that he just wouldn't go to a wedding with that stipulation, because kids are fun.

I rolled my eyes because even though it may be slightly judgy or prejudiced, what gay male hairdresser in his mid-60s gives a flying fuck about kids at a wedding he's not even attending? 

Anyway, they moved off that topic and onto something else and I stopped paying any attention whatsoever, focusing on my phone once again. When the haircut was done, I saw that he'd washed and conditioned Daisy's hair twice, then straightened it, then put product in it, and then blew it back. She looked like one of the Shirelles, except with, y'know, green/blue/purple hair. Or kinda like a punk rock Bride of Frankenstein. Either way, I dug it. I thought she looked really good, and I also knew what it would look like once all the product and styling would be washed out of it.

"$75," he told Daisy at the register.

Daisy immediately looked back at me, and in one smooth motion I pulled out my wallet and gave her another twenty to cover the difference and the tip. Daisy said nothing. We paid him, tipped him, thanked him, and then left.

"So is that the American Tax?" Daisy asked me once we were back to the Bronco. "Because you were there in the room when I asked him on the phone, the haircut was $59."

"Yes," I said. And I did remember. "But he did condition your hair twice and he did put the product in it and blow it out..."

It was still $16 more than we'd been quoted, and that was before tip.

The question of the "American Tax" -- and whether it was instituted because of the "rude" wedding stuff or not, or whether it was a tax at all or whether pricing was different with the double-conditioning and blowout -- absolutely plagued Daisy throughout the rest of the trip.

"Do you really care though?" I asked. "Your hair looks great -- nobody can cut and style it better than he does, and even if it is an 'American Tax,' I don't really give a shit, it is what it is, etc."

"Yeah, I don't think I'm going to go back to him again," Daisy would later tell her mother on the phone. 

I thought her hair looked great, and it is what it is.