It was a seemingly beautiful day — the sun was out, the spring air was still crisp despite the fast approaching summer, and apparently, the crows were out in force.
I had just gotten my hair “frosted”, a process which in effect bleaches the tips of the hair on my head. This was for some reason a popular look at the time, and I had adopted it. Why I did this I no longer recall, and is potentially irrelevant as the sins of my youth are not up for discussion here.
The road back to my house from the barber shop was a mere twenty minute walk through some quiet streets, and I fully intended to enjoy the trip. North Vancouver is a suburb of Vancouver, but being connected to the main city through two bridges it had a lot less traffic, more greenery and more of a small town feel.
I was partially aware that there were crows all over the place. Realistically with so many of the creatures residing here, one does not really take notice of them. Their caws easily become background noise like the sounds of passing cars.
But eventually, I began to notice certain patterns. There were a few crows following me, of this I was sure. They would perch on the telephone posts along the street I was walking on and wait for me to pass. As soon as I would pass one, it would fly ahead and perch on the telephone post further ahead than the next crow, in effect hopscotching me. They would caw malignantly the whole time, but I was not sure if it was directed at me. This continued for several blocks until I came to the alleyway I usually take to get into my building.
Here, the crows unleashed in all their fury. They call a group of crows a murder, and the murder was angry that day, my friends! They would sweep down in a long diving arc as they closed in on my stupid hair. Several times, claw and beak connected with the back of my head as they dive-bombed me.
The first time it happened I thought it was a strange occurrence, and decided to ignore it. The second and third time I realized I was under attack. The murder showed their disdain for my new hair as they mercilessly dove into me, then went back to perching in the safety of their telephone posts.
Eventually I reached the door to my apartment building, and with it, a certain safety.
For almost ten years I told this story like a grizzled vet from a war long ago tells tales of surviving a raid by “Charlie”. And then, today, it happened to my girlfriend. I laughed out loud as hard as only someone who has lived it can appreciate.
So here, a picture of me with my stupid, stupid Backstreet Boys hair. Enjoy this reward for reading about this ridiculous story.