Courage and a coiffure

Putting my life in someone else's hands yesterday, I decided to be brave and courageous and adventurous - I went to a hairdresser, in France. For me, this was never a regular occasion. For years I saw a hairdresser every 3 months when the split ends got too ratty, but since I have entered the world of colouring (something which is hard to stop once you start), somehow I cannot wait so long. I have been in France for 2 months now and not only can I tell that from a calendar, but also the length of my regrowth!

Before leaving Sydney I made an appointment with my hairdresser in Bondi and knew that this might be the last time that I come away with the natural, usual hair colour I have grown newly accustomed to. I dreaded the day when I would have to find a new hairdresser in France, and one that does not speak English! Fears of coming out of the salon a blonde or red-head, or with short hair and a fringe, pervaded my thoughts. In the end though, the last few days I have become desperate. I think the last straw was when I looked at a photo of myself, with orange hair and black roots - not a good look!

So, the task became to decide on a particular salon. Fontainebleau is full of coiffures. For a relatively small town, there are apparently 28 hairdressers! Not surprisingly though, as French woman are extremely driven by aesthetics, always extremely well groomed and polished. A weekly "brushe" (blowdry to us) is a common occurrence, and even walking down the street to buy baguette or fruit from the market, the women look neat and "dressed up". No one would be caught dead walking out of the house in tracksuit pants or gym clothes, which in Sydney, is almost fashionable!

After walking past quite a few salons, I decided on Dessange. It is a large chain from Paris, and slightly more expensive than some of the other salons, and I used this fact to justify that it would be "safer." Probably, misguided, but at least with some reason behind it.

Making the appointment was a perfect introduction to what I believed would be a difficult situation. I have learnt dates, days of the week and time in French class so thought this would be a cinch. I walked into the salon ("it'll be much easier to do in person rather than over the phone" I thought) and was immediately confronted with a nonchalant and casual bonjour. The lady behind the reception, a pretty brunette, looked at me, waiting for a response. My mouth froze up and my brain switched off. I forgot what to say. Then out of my mouth I heard myself saying, "je m'appelle..I mean..." French 101. I don't need to say my name when walking into a hairdressing salon to make an appointment. Come on, Mel.

Thankfully, things got a bit better from there. I asked the woman if she spoke English, to which she (as expected) replied, "non," with a reassuring and apologetic smile. It was fine though. I explained that I wanted ("I want" is one of the phrases I have perfected in French) "coloure" which intuitively is also colour. Then came making the appointment. Days of the week fine, time so-so. The french use 24-hour-time, which en anglais I am average at, (I often have to think about what 21.00 and 18.00 are) so in French, it is just that little bit harder. With an appointment made though, for Vendredi, Friday, at 15h00, all was good.

The cultural observations I was able to pick up walking into the salon on Vendredi were numerous. The unfamiliar systems stood out and made me instantly into a foreigner. On walking in, your coat is taken, then you are ushered into a different room at the back of the salon looking out onto the courtyard. Not the room in the front, where it appears you go after, a different room. I don't ask, just follow the lady from reception. A white coat is given to me to put on (I forgot to mention that all the people working in the salon wear white coats like they are in an operating theatre!). "Cafe, the, chocolat?" I am offered. "The s'il vous plait" Then I wait, and wait. I am completely content, enjoying the peace and quiet to just sit and read. I could come here every week just for the hour or 2 of sitting, this the greatest pampering of all.

Next to me, a woman probably in her thirties with a full face of thick make-up, botoxed cheeks and all black attire (which I now understand to be the French female winter uniform) is sitting under a heat machine. Her already blonde hair is being bleached more. She sips on her espresso and smiles at me. What is she thinking? She smiles my way sympathetically (not pityingly?) overhearing our conversation in English.

As it turns out, Sami, my coiffure, is a lovely French balding man in his forties perhaps, with perfectly good English. Certainly good enough to explain to him what I am after, and for him to give me his feedback. He is friendly and down to earth and I am so pleased. Always the drama queen and worrier, it turns out that venturing to a hairdresser in a foreign speaking country is easy, or maybe I was just lucky this time. Orange hair averted and black roots gone, I am content, and best of all, it doesn't even look like I have just been to the hairdresser. Au natural!

I am then brought into the front room. Ah, it must be a separate blow-drying room. They offer me one, which I am happy to go without. I don't need the extra expense and I don't have any particular plans for the weekend to make use of a nice blow dry.But of course, the brunette from the reception babbles something in French which I don't understand, so I nod and agree. "What the hell." As it turns out you can never walk out onto the street in France with wet washed hair, this is just not acceptable.

Blondie next to me is sipping another espresso. I am sure she will be there next time, no matter in how many week or months time I make my next appointment, she'll be there, bleached and blow-dried to the max.

Merci,

Mel