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HAIR-RAISING ADVENTURES IN FRANCE
It’s Time Again For One of Those Visits I Always Dread . . .
No, not the dentist
I’ve put it off long enough, it’s time to pay a visit to the hair salon, something that has all the allure of a root canal or a tax audit. My friend Kit and I were having one of our weekly phone calls — she in California, me in France — talking about this and that. Her daughter’s upcoming wedding, whether or not Kit would get her make-up professionally done, I advised against it, and hair. Mine.
I said I needed to do something about it.
The last time I did something about it was just before I went back to the States — a year ago. Before I moved to France, I had appointments every six weeks or so. Now, just the thought of explaining what I want une mèche — a weave, or highlights — is enough to make me pull it up in a ponytail and put off a visit for a little longer.
I know the word mèche, but it’s never that simple. I knew the word mèche when I went into a salon in Montpellier a few years ago. Although his English was as limited as my French, I thought we were communicating. Maybe it was my pronunciation, but I left the salon with an inch or so of bronze roots and the rest of my hair an eye-catching shade of egg yolk yellow.
