There was once a small, soft-spoken aged wizard whose name was Willi. Spelling his name with a flamboyantly absent "e," Willi arrived in Canada from Austria at a young age, presupposing that he would find success and love outside of his native land. His correctness proved the archetype for his shearing career: always correct, always wise, and sagely adept with a flat edge and hair dryer.
I encountered Willi just over an hour ago. On the precipice of embarking on a night out in Montreal with a wispy countenance and untamed locks, I led my comrades to "Le Cartier," a personal grooming establishment with a propensity for stockpiling Penthouse magazines and para-anti-Semetic (yet tastefully, and audaciously, not so) stylists. Four in number, we each received tailored heterosexual treatments--the groom to be, aghast at the rate with which the side of his hair multiplies, was shorn to evenness. As for the rest of us, all single and wanting very much to taste as much French onion soup as we could over four days in Montreal--well, the specifics of our haircuts are irrelevant. Just know that I will think of Willi fondly, and often. Of all the Viennese people I know, he might be the oldest, and for that I thank him.
Stay shorn Sherbrooke Boulevard,