(old, familiar, fuzzy Chewy)
(sorry attempt at home-grooming; we didn't dare touch his face)
The husband wanted him to get a mohawk, an idea stolen from a friend of ours, whose terrier Duncan rocks his own mohawk regularly. He also wanted a goatee and the feathers on the backs of his legs. I was fine with whatever. He's a dog. It's just fur.
We dropped him off and as we left I jokingly said to the husband, "I hope I recognize him when we get back." (FORESHADOWING! FORESHADOWING!)
When they called us to pick him up, I started getting really nervous. A feeling that only increased as we got closer to the groomer. We walked in and I saw a huge pile of his golden fur all over the floor. I knew it was going to be drastic. He came out and I swear to God I did not know my own dog! As the husband was trying to tell the groomer she forgot to leave the beard, I kept hissing at him, "Who is this dog? This dog is a stranger!", meanwhile, trying desperately to act normally toward Chewy so as not to freak him out, too! I didn't want him to feel he'd gotten a bad haircut. I was floored. I felt I didn't know him at all. I felt like I'd been given someone else's dog. I arrived with my fluffy, golden, sheepdog-looking goofball and got back a poodle. A poodle!
Yes, I know he's half poodle. Yes, I know we've always said how poodle-y he looks when wet. But do you see his face? That is the face of a poodle! I had no idea his face was that long and skinny and poodle-y. I had no idea he was such a poodle. I have a poodle. He was hiding in sheep's clothing (almost literally! Friends have called him a sheep!) for six months.
And, incongruously, here's a shot of Puck rolling in the carrot bits that Chewy started to eat, then abandoned. Maybe the heat's getting to him, too. He's lost his head completely. Mohawk for you, too, Puck!