Here I go again; another
appointment with a hairdresser, another attempt to keep an hair of Englishness about my style. (Pardon the pun). I must have
chalked up at least twelve since it became a mission several years ago to
establish myself with an eminent “coiffeur” ou “coiffeuse”; I’m not fussy.
Or am I? Most things in Brittany
As I tentatively walk
towards my latest choice of hairdressers; charmingly called “Coiff Zen”, I cast my mind back to my first encounter
with French hairdressers.
Madame listened
attentively to my very orchestrated French phrases intended to concentrate her
mind on a “femme anglaise” requirements. Then with
a flourish pasted my head with a purple pulp and brought me a coffee. Another client, and then another arrived and
Madame cut and cropped both in a similar short fashion; talking all the while.
I caught snippets of the conversation in which I recognised the familiar l’anglaise coincided
with all three women looking in my direction. I took this to mean they were
discussing what I had asked Sandrine
the hairdresser to do and I was obviously more demanding than her usual
clientele.
Three quarters of an hour
later the two other clients were still there drinking coffee whilst I was moved
to the wash basin for shampooing. Half
way through a rinse there was another client, who as he happened to be passing,
asked if she had time to give him a cut tout
de suite. He was obviously a farmer, it was easy to deduce from his tractor
neatly parked on the pavement outside. Sandrine informed me she would let me relax there for fifteen minutes with my
head bent backwards over the basin while she gave him a short back and sides.
Judging by the aroma that wafted into the salon with him I concluded he had
something to do with les porcines.
Warning bells had been
ringing in my head for the last half hour and when I was finally asked to
return to my seat in front of the mirror; they jangled even louder!
Ma coiffeuse removed the
towel from my head to reveal the natural
look and I instantly made a mental note never to make such demands again. I
had “l’air plus naturel” of every
other client who frequented Chez Sandrine.
I did manage not to end up with the same style as the other two women but
my colour was identical and I went unnoticed amongst all the other heads for
miles around for the following month.
From rural basics I
transported myself to a place where everyone is overwhelmingly gushing and
there is an overabundance of hair lacquer; I went up market in a very posh
town.
This was reflected of
course, in the principal hairdresser being an attractive male surrounded by a
harem of attractive hairdressers, apprentices; and the amount on the cheque I
signed at the end of the session. To be fair I received a lot of attention and
their skills as well as the products they used were of superior quality.
The salon was a hive of
activity and the competent apprentice who applied the colour chatted politely
in French; slowing down when she noticed any vacant expressions on my
face. A shampoo with an expertly
administered cranium massage followed by the application of a beautifully
scented conditioner promoted a feeling of relaxation. In retrospect I realise
this was a cunning ruse to put me off my guard; and it worked! Not even after
my hair was revealed to be two or three shades redder than my face dashed my
sense of well being.
Then I met Frank, (yes,
his name really was Frank) who was to cut and style my hair. He was obviously
admired by les Mesdames and les Mesdemoiselles but not nearly as much as he
admired himself. Every glance in the
mirror was not to view what my hair looked like from the front but how good he
looked!
Frank was magic with his
scissors and his styles creative but on each subsequent visit the style became
more extravagant and so did the bill. So it was bye-bye Frank.
Word of mouth they say is
the best recommendation, so when a French friend said his daughter worked in an
excellent salon in a supermarket complex; I made it my next port of call.
I should have known the
instant I saw the name above the door it would not go well, “Le Salon de Prat”. Everyone who worked there had blonde hair,
including my friend’s daughter so I shouldn’t have been surprised when it was
suggested it would suit me too! I showed true British spirit and refused!
Except…..for one small experimental strand across my forehead. The pressure was
too great, I never went back.
Since then I have endured
hairdressers insisting in speaking in English; which is not always helpful, as
it tends to lead to a distinct lack of concentration with regards to my
hair. Hairdressers who insist on
highlights; “éclairci par le soleil” sun
kissed, guaranteed to make me look younger.
My husband’s opinion was that it made me look more like the badger in
the neighbouring field. I have even helped one hairdresser’s son with his
English homework while undergoing a particularly delicate colouring process.
I reach the door of Coiff Zen and boldly enter,
“Bonjour Madame, asseyez-vous.”
Here I go again!!
Very funny - dont think i will ever risk a hair cut in France!
Posted by: lavenderbongo | Wednesday, June 03, 2009 at 08:24 AM