One of the few things that unnerved me soon after moving to France was the thought of visiting a hairdresser’s to get my hair cut.  This might sound a tad idiotic or even downright cowardly to those who value their regular trips to the barber. I however, have always seen it as a chore, and so the thought of having to undertake such a chore in a foreign, unfamiliar language makes the whole idea seem quite terrifying.

The fact is, even when in the UK, I rarely consider getting my mop trimmed more than twice a year. It usually has to reach that “just stepped out of a hawthorn bush on a windy day” look before I admit defeat and begrudgingly trudge down to the nearest, cheapest, salon.  So even in my native tongue I’m not that used to communicating “what I want”.

Er.. a haircut?

Since moving to France I have let my low standards of barnet topiary slip even lower however thanks to a variety of post-crop mops that could only be described as “a bit girly”.  The reasons for which, I could argue, lie solely in my inability to pipe-up at the appropriate time in the salon with the right vocabulary.

But of course it doesn’t help a great deal if you’re -3 myopic and can’t actually see what the hairdresser is doing while your glasses are off!  I suppose contact lenses would be a good idea?

Today I came home with a paramilitary style short back and sides … and top, having succumbed to a blade-wielding hairdresser eager to get me out of the door asap (and paid by the head at Self-Coiff’). No need then for the ciseaux d’éclaircissement (thinning scissors), which historically have resulted in a bouffant less than a week later as my naturally thick locks would push-on through, and gung-ho for la tondeuse (mower/trimmer) for that “he definitely doesn’t have nits” look.

Is the result what I asked for? Er.. possibly.

Unfortunately after five years in France I can no longer plead linguistic incapacity for having a terrible haircut … just poor taste perhaps?