Coiff & Co

I spent a little over 4 hours yesterday afternoon getting my hair "done". It was my first time experiencing such a daunting task not in English. Somehow, despite my time abroad, I had managed to completely avoid putting myself into this situation until now. Coiff & Co is a bright little salon located in the strip of stores directly across the street from the tower where I live, right next to my bank. Upon exiting my door, there is absolutely no way you could not see it, with its bright yellow awning and big, colorful pictures of young Europeans with frosted tips and a menu of their different forfaits covering the windows. I had been considering getting my hair cut and, gasp, professionally colored for awhile and, after several days wait to build up my courage, I did it.

Coiff & Co does not take rendez-vous so I walked in at around 1 PM. I left at a little after 5. It rained continuously all day, so I knew there was nothing better to do. I put on my pointy-toed, studded, stiletto boots (for added confidence) just for the occasion. There were a couple people in front of me, so I grabbed the latest Paris Match and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, it was my turn. Elodie approached me and asked what "we" would be doing today. I was unsure of my ability to explain what I wanted in French and, though I looked in several dictionaries, could not find a word for "layers". I knew I needed a photo. Unfortunately for my confidence, the only photo that I could find was one of the Olsen twins. Yes, they have even managed to penetrate French society and my stylist knew exactly who she was. Ugh. I had also been warned that French haircutters will never do what you want--they only cut the way they want it. Sure enough, Elodie took one glance, paused, then stated what haircut she thought would be nice. The photo never reappeared. I should say also that I had incredibly dirty hair at this point. Someone once old me that color holds better on dirty hair. I think I had gone well beyond that point, though, as my actual decision to get it colored was a few days ago and I waited even longer just to build up my courage. Elodie showed me the different color swatches and I selected a nice chatain foncé or dark chestnut. "Brown" hair does not seem to exist in France. Only chestnut, hazelnut, cinnamon, or other food-related colors. I'm sure they even have foie gras and paté colors. By this time, I was through with two Paris Match and I went on to peruse the less classy gossip rags, like Allô and Entrevue. She rinced my hair and then (is this normal?) immediately shampooed it. I know it needed it, but is that usually done right after coloring it? Things were going along swimmingly and I felt fairly confident that I had fooled this young woman into thinking that I was a)French and b)I do this all the time. We all know that couldn't last, though.

When it came time to cut my hair, Elodie asked "How many centimeters shall we cut?" Here, I had to blow my cover. I laughed and said "Well, that's going to be difficult for me to say. I'm American and I don't really get the metric system". She proceeded with the cut (I used a lot of motioning). Elodie and I made nice chit-chat. She complimented my French. This happens a lot, but it's not the self-esteem boost you might think it is. Coming from people who aren't exactly gifted in language, I'm never sure what that compliment means. Then Elodie subjected me to a brushing. Yes, that's the French word. I haven't smelled burning hair in a long time, but I smelled my own yesterday. Thankfully she left my hair alone after that and didn't put anything in it.

Now, at the end comes the tricky part. In France, you don't tip, right? Wrong. Sometimes you do. But, just like the rules of kissing on the cheeks (is it one or two or three--in some places five!) I can't understand these rules either. Irene told me that she always tips one or two euros in Austria when she gets her hair cut. I made it a point of watching the other customers and didn't see anyone tip. They must have been very slight of hand, though, because given the tone of my farewell, I think I was supposed to. Why can't I ever get these things right.

So, sorry I can't post a picture of the new do. Neither Christian nor Jesko noticed that I'd had anything done.