... or Humiliated at the hairdresser!
I've written before about how I hate going to the French hairdresser. And in nearly eight years here, these traumatic experiences have not greatly improved.
When in London earlier this month, I had my hair cut at a trendy salon. It looked fine for a couple of days. But then I noticed the cut seemed a bit wonky and uneven. So today I went to my usual French hairdresser to reshape it. I figured this would require ten minutes and a few snips of the scissors. Was I ever wrong!
Not only was Madame (as always, impossibly stylish with a gamine cut with asymmetrical fringe) appalled at my London haircut, she called every hairdresser in the salon over to survey the horror. "Regard!" she exclaimed as she held up locks of my hair for all to examine with incredulity at "le coupe d'Anglais." I was mortified, while they all twittered in sympathy for me, the poor American who'd had the bad luck to encounter a Londoner with scissors. (Yes I know there are plenty of talented London hairdressers).
So Madame set about putting the cut to rights - a task she initially wasn't sure she could accomplish. "Je ne sais pas, je ne sais pas," she kept muttering, a look of annoyance on her face. But she was determined to triumph - perhaps she felt French honour was at stake.
Et voila! Now my hair is about four inches shorter than when I arrived at the salon. It hasn't been this short since 1993! The cut is very chic, very French, but I'm not sure it's really me. Madame informed me that I must channel my inner French girl, to carry it off. (Do I even have an inner French girl? Not sure about that.) And Madame reminded me the drastic cut was the only way she could salvage my hair, after the "horrible" damage done in London.
Oui, c'est vrai. Pointless to argue with a Parisienne, as my friend Olivier can attest.
P.S. If you're wondering where's the photo, I'll try to oblige within the next couple of days.
And here is something that you should make you smile.