Coiffed

This morning we biked down to Maisonneuve to renew our drivers' licenses and health cards. That meant having our pictures taken after filling out the paperwork and paying our fees. I had felt like I looked bad when I left the house, and although the photo wasn't too awful (I do love it that they say, "OK, big smile please!") I was thinking "makeover." After saying goodbye to J. and walking through the huge Berri-Uqam station underground to return some books and CDs to the Bibliothèque Nationale, I passed a salon that didn't look either too fancy - like it would cost $90 for walking in the door - or too basic, and I  decisively stepped up to the counter and asked for an appointment as soon as possible. "11:50?" the girl said. Fifty minutes away. I said fine, told her my name was "Eh-LEE-sa-bet" (which is how the French say it; I've given up saying "EliZZabeTH," and "Beth" is close to impossible) and went and got a cup of coffee, which I drank while sitting out in the sun outside the library.

At the appointed hour I was back at the salon and Veronique, in tight black capris and a black t-shirt, with her own short, streaked, very chic hair, was washing my very much too-long Vermont hippie mane. She massaged and washed and conditioned and then sat me up and we went over to one of the white leatherette swivel chairs; a lot of the other patrons were business men in suits from the office towers above. "Quelle longueur?" she asked, after combing out my hair.

I didn't tell her I hadn't been in a salon for several years; I just said, "Shorter, and maybe some layers, something softer, to give some width to my face." She nodded. I looked at her in the mirror, hovering in back of my shoulder, comb in hand. "My face is similar to yours, actually," I said, mixing in the French words where I knew them. "Oval but thin. And la fringe... way too long, too straight across..." Veronique smiled and agreed. "Trop long! D'accord. I'll cut some layers on the sides, and for the length , peut-etre comme ça?" She held her hands just above my shoulders. "Un peu plus court, si vous voulez," I said. "And I just want to be able to still put my hair up on my head with a clip, especially in the summer." Veronique smiled and said, "Yes, OK, we all want to be able to put it up, we feel better with it off our necks!" and then she set to work with her sharp scissors.

She worked very carefully, with focus. Halfway through I began to relax, and so did she, after I said, "I can already tell -- this is going to be much better." Maybe she realized I had the potential for becoming a regular customer instead of a walk-in, or maybe she just decided to like me; I liked that she didn't chatter at me, but we did exchange some basic details: where we lived, how long we'd both been in the city, that she had kids and I didn't. She could have been my kid herself. My hair was starting to dry a little on its own, and to fluff up; I didn't look quite as old and pin-headed in the black plastic cape as I had when we'd come over from the sink - I think that grim moment is really what keeps me out of salons.

She finished the sides and back, and then cut the bangs, softening them and making them somewhat asymmetrical. Then she said, "OK, now I'll dry it - do you want some mousse?" I told her I was just going to go and put my bike helmet on...but then I thought better of it and said, "OK, do it with mousse and I'll watch you and see how you do it." She blew my hair dry with the same attention she had given to the cut, and then went back and recut all the layers a little. "You can do it like this," she showed me, turning the layers in, and toward my face, "or like this, more fluffy," using a round brush to flip the ends of the layers up a little. "If there's anything you don't like, or if you want me to cut it shorter, just come back in the next week or two and I'll trim it for you." We smiled at each other; I was pleased and she knew it. On top of it the cut wasn't even expensive, and she never tried to sell me any salon products, just gave me her card and thanked me for the tip.

The other night at dinner, in a French bistro, the friend who had invited us looked around at the crowded room and said, ruefully, "No matter what the French are wearing, they manage to look good.  And no matter what the British wear...they don't!" It's not quite that cut-and dried, in my opinion, but pretty close. I've been intimidated by the salons and the hair thing; the French women, no matter their age, have great-looking, confident hair. I may not be a dark Juliette Binoche brunette with henna highlights, but my hair looks like it belongs here tonight. At least until I start wielding the blow-dryer myself!

Comments

[Scott]

you see, this is one of the significant differences. in the US, they tell us NOT to smile.

best,
scott

[Stray]

wonderful Beth - I really enjoyed this!

And you're so right - confident hair - the perfect descriptor. The english are cursed with shy, self-consious hair.

I have the ultimate in confident hair I guess - a grade 4 buzz. Somewhere between tibetan monk and 12 year old boy :)

Your hair sounds lovely though - and scott is spot on - in the UK we're not allowed to smile any more either! I think I might emigrate to a country that wants it's citizens to be joyful.

Sx

[Pica]

This was funny, I was giggling -- I hate that part too where you emerge under a robe from the sink, looking like a drowned ratty... sounds like you got a great cut and it wasn't too much of an ordeal, even!

[Rana]

A good haircut is a marvelous thing, isn't it? :)

I don't mind the "drowned" portion, so much as the vulnerability of having things done to my head that I can't quite see (very nearsighted without the glasses). There's always a surprise at the end - though, usually, it's not a bad one!

[Loretta]

Whenever we move, never feel that we have really made a home until I find a hairdresser. My hair is thick and coarse and frizzy and someone who knows how to cut and style it is rare. Congratulations on finding Veronique! Now you have tres chic salon tresses for your new life north of the border.

[Martine]

J'ai hâte de voir le résultat! Je suis certaine que tu es très jolie!

[Bill]

Well, your choice of illustration certainly has a zing to it! Quelle artiste?

[beth]

Je ne sais pas, Martine...je vais me laver mes cheveux ce matin, sans Véronique, et alors...nous allons voir! J'espère que cet "look" est facile maintainir!

Bill, the artist is Maurice Denis, one of the group known as the "Nabis." There's a big retrospective exhibition of his work at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Montréal, but I haven't gone to it, and now I see it's closing on May 20. Too bad. Here is a link if you want to know more: http://www.mmfa.qc.ca/en/expositions/exposition_124.html

[Fred Garber]

I have not enjoyed a trip to the salon as much as this since the movie "Shampoo"!

[Bill]

Oh, yeah, sure, I know of him, but I'd like to know more, so thanks for the link. I'd thought perhaps the artist was un secret de Quebec.

[Lucy]

Oh yes, that grim moment! I don't think I'd quite admitted it to myself before, but now you say it... Funnily enough my latest hairdresser is also Veronique! She comes to my friend's house, who loves hosting the salon, as does her 7 year old daughter, and the atmosphere is jolly and keeps me better distracted from the more negative aspects. In fact, unlike Rana, I find being short-sighted can be a distinct advantage!

[Jean]

Your description of the mirror moment is priceless and will certainly come to me next time I have that moment! Finding a hairdresser you like is certainly a Montreal rite of passage.

[leslee]

Never underestimate the spirits-lifting effect of a new hairdo. Glad you found a good stylist!