A haircut

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I think you know you’re more than just a tourist when you’re forced into having a haircut. I hate going to the hairdressers, and having got someone I was comfortable with in England, the thought of starting all over again was not enticing. Though not having to pay prices that seemed increasingly silly was an inducement.

Where to start? I looked about me to see who had a haircut I liked the look of, and fixed on the owner of the local grocery shop. She sent me off to a small salon in Lavelanet, and when I saw it, I really wasn’t sure. Madame la Proprietaire is all there is. No juniors, no Saturday girl. Just her. She’s a woman of my age, though she looks older (um, I think). She generally wears chiffon leopard skin blouses, cinched in at the waist (she’s very slim) with a wide black patent belt, a pencil slim skirt, and heels. Her peroxide blond hair is in a neat bob, and she always, always wears large framed dark glasses. Surely that wasn’t going to work for me? But Celine at the shop always looks good, so I gave the woman a chance. And she IS good. She listens to what you want & cuts brilliantly. Only at the end do we disagree, when she produces a spray gun of industrial strength varnish - I mean hairspray - to glue the creation into rock-hard solidity. My hair isn’t even 2’’ long. She’s faced the fact now that she can save on spray when I’m around, but it clearly pains her.

The only other think to take into account is …time. The second time I went, it was for a 9.00 a.m. appointment. Opening time. At exactly 9 o’clock I saw two other women loitering round the area, presumably waiting for a local office to open. I loitered too. By 9.15 I’d explored all the neighbouring streets. By 9.20, I was ready to give up when suddenly the blinds of the shop started to open, and Madame opened her doors to welcome not just me, but the other 2 women who also, it turned out, had 9 o’clock appointments. No apology, no explanation. Just welcoming smiles and down to business. I was not first, so it was magazines to browse through until my turn came.

Yesterday I had a 10.00 appointment. No loitering in the streets then, but loitering all the same. I was finally seen at 10 to 11. By then I’d read all about vegetarian restaurants in Paris, early onset Alzheimer’s disease, coping with teenagers who don’t communicate (what? In France too?) and was just starting an article about sleep difficulties, which I could have done with finishing. Several people in the salon were in the same boat, waiting, waiting….. Nobody minds. It’s just the way it is.

While she’s cutting, we discuss the sort of things that hairdressers and their clients everwhere talk about. But it can be more interesting. I’ve heard about how her Spanish parents fled over the Pyrenees in the Spanish Civil war, as so many people now living here did, and settled in the area; and enjoyed listening to her early experiences working in a barber’s shop. She adores my accent. So it’s an arrangement that’ll probably continue for quite some time. Oh, and she’s much cheaper than my English hairdresser.

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