On La Coiffure
I went for a haircut yesterday. And, like many other things in France, it was overly complicated and lasted over three hours. Like too few things in France, it was executed by a man who looked like Heath Ledger if Heath Ledger were a werewolf.
Werewolf Ledger kept insisting I had something called, as I understood it, the "maladie des perles" which I think meant something like "lots of horrible split ends which break off of my head at the slightest touch or tug" and after he had finished a forty minute long intensive heat moisture treatment, he incited everyone else in the hairdresser's to feel how nice he had made my horrible, disease-ridden hair; he was most proud of himself, although I will admit that this pride is not entirely unwarranted.
Werewolf Ledger also had a precise vision in regards to how my hair should be cut, which, due to holes in my French where hairdressing jargon is concerned, he could not palpably express to me. So, he started hunting around in hair books for a picture which matched his vision; he couldn't find QUITE what he was looking for, but he found something he said was rather similar: what looked to me like a photo of a woman with a mullet. And since he had said that this wasn't EXACTLY what he wanted to do to my hair, and he seemed so confidently enthusiastic about his idea, I asked him which bits of it he DID want to do. And he explained that he wanted to cut my hair so that it was short on the top and long on the bottom, which sounded like nothing more than a description of a mullet to me. So, I tried to say something polite like, "nice idea, but I don't really like that style," which he interpreted as "this thick English person doesn't understand, I'll draw a diagram!" So, he went to the reception desk and sketched on the back of an envelope something which, while not entirely defined, looked suspiciously like a femmullet. And what I wanted to say to him was something like, "Well, matey, I would like to trust your vision, but I really can't walk out of here with anything which could even, in the most vague of conceptions, be mistaken for a mullet, but if you assure me that we will be well away from mullet territory, then allez-y." But then I got to thinking about how I could even begin to try explaining what a mullet was to this French man. How, for example, would one say in French, "you know, the haircut that a stereotypical redneck has...umm...a guy who wears lots of flannel and fucks his cousins and drinks beer in a caravan..."? So, I just said not to go TROP court at the top and tried not to wince as he cut large chunks out of my hair.
Then, of course, he wanted to highlight it. And since I am on strike and having a haircut was my day's official and sole activity (other strike day activities have included a trip to LIDL which involved using the hitherto unexplored Tramway line 2!, ghetto shoe shopping, and jewelry making!), I just let him realize his vision to the full, wondering if I wouldn't leave the hairdresser's having paid 90 euros to look like an ex-redneck turned 80s hair band member cum zebra in the light of the full moon. My fears were not abated when, after I thought he had finished styling it and that it looked okay, he attacked my hairdo with a pair of zigzag scissors, a lot of hairspray, and scrunching. If a little bit 1960s, however, it does not look so bad - it is, at the very least, better than the shapeless mop of brittle hair that, two days ago used to break off into little tiny pieces in my hands before forming killer dust bunnies all over my seldom-swept floor. Besides, this change can only be a good thing: maybe my semi-mullet will help me to attract French men of Werewolf's calibre rather than the dodgy individuals whose advances I've been staving off as of late. Oh, but my travails with the French men are the makings of a whole separate post! Suffice it to say that in my old hair, a shady-looking middle-aged character followed me up the stairs to a French grammar class and offered me some "pocket money" to watch him wank, upon the refusal of which he poked me in the chest insisting, for the sake of curiosity, that he knew my bra size. So maybe a mullet is exactly what I need...though, therein lies a Catch-22 of sorts, because after that extravaganza, I could certainly use some pocket money...
Werewolf Ledger kept insisting I had something called, as I understood it, the "maladie des perles" which I think meant something like "lots of horrible split ends which break off of my head at the slightest touch or tug" and after he had finished a forty minute long intensive heat moisture treatment, he incited everyone else in the hairdresser's to feel how nice he had made my horrible, disease-ridden hair; he was most proud of himself, although I will admit that this pride is not entirely unwarranted.
Werewolf Ledger also had a precise vision in regards to how my hair should be cut, which, due to holes in my French where hairdressing jargon is concerned, he could not palpably express to me. So, he started hunting around in hair books for a picture which matched his vision; he couldn't find QUITE what he was looking for, but he found something he said was rather similar: what looked to me like a photo of a woman with a mullet. And since he had said that this wasn't EXACTLY what he wanted to do to my hair, and he seemed so confidently enthusiastic about his idea, I asked him which bits of it he DID want to do. And he explained that he wanted to cut my hair so that it was short on the top and long on the bottom, which sounded like nothing more than a description of a mullet to me. So, I tried to say something polite like, "nice idea, but I don't really like that style," which he interpreted as "this thick English person doesn't understand, I'll draw a diagram!" So, he went to the reception desk and sketched on the back of an envelope something which, while not entirely defined, looked suspiciously like a femmullet. And what I wanted to say to him was something like, "Well, matey, I would like to trust your vision, but I really can't walk out of here with anything which could even, in the most vague of conceptions, be mistaken for a mullet, but if you assure me that we will be well away from mullet territory, then allez-y." But then I got to thinking about how I could even begin to try explaining what a mullet was to this French man. How, for example, would one say in French, "you know, the haircut that a stereotypical redneck has...umm...a guy who wears lots of flannel and fucks his cousins and drinks beer in a caravan..."? So, I just said not to go TROP court at the top and tried not to wince as he cut large chunks out of my hair.
Then, of course, he wanted to highlight it. And since I am on strike and having a haircut was my day's official and sole activity (other strike day activities have included a trip to LIDL which involved using the hitherto unexplored Tramway line 2!, ghetto shoe shopping, and jewelry making!), I just let him realize his vision to the full, wondering if I wouldn't leave the hairdresser's having paid 90 euros to look like an ex-redneck turned 80s hair band member cum zebra in the light of the full moon. My fears were not abated when, after I thought he had finished styling it and that it looked okay, he attacked my hairdo with a pair of zigzag scissors, a lot of hairspray, and scrunching. If a little bit 1960s, however, it does not look so bad - it is, at the very least, better than the shapeless mop of brittle hair that, two days ago used to break off into little tiny pieces in my hands before forming killer dust bunnies all over my seldom-swept floor. Besides, this change can only be a good thing: maybe my semi-mullet will help me to attract French men of Werewolf's calibre rather than the dodgy individuals whose advances I've been staving off as of late. Oh, but my travails with the French men are the makings of a whole separate post! Suffice it to say that in my old hair, a shady-looking middle-aged character followed me up the stairs to a French grammar class and offered me some "pocket money" to watch him wank, upon the refusal of which he poked me in the chest insisting, for the sake of curiosity, that he knew my bra size. So maybe a mullet is exactly what I need...though, therein lies a Catch-22 of sorts, because after that extravaganza, I could certainly use some pocket money...