It had been 12 weeks since Steph last beautified me. Steph has been doing my hair for years; she knows the perfect shape to cut and the perfect color combinations to apply, and does it so well that I don't even need to explain what I want. I don't know exactly what she does, mostly, but I always walk away with fabulous-looking locks that miraculously stay grey-free for 9+ weeks at a time.
Unfortunately, Steph was 4,000 miles away, and I was in a small town in France. I didn't have a nice hat to hide the silver that was quickly overtaking the blonde and brown on my head like Dale Earnhardt Jr. when the traffic light turns red. I could put off a visit to a salon no longer, lest I start getting mistaken for my mother.
Unsure of my fate, I sat in Madam Astrid's Belfort, France salon chair. She smiled sweetly and asked if I wanted anything more than a cut, in French. Uh oh. I'd exhausted my knowledge of the language just getting through "May I please get a trim?" and she spoke no English. She pointed to the glaring grey part on my head and I nodded, "Yes! Colour, oui, s'il vous plait!"
As Mme Astrid was mixing the blonde color, I alarmingly realized that Steph had always mixed at least two colors for my hair, sometimes even three. And she didn't slather it on all over, she used dainty little foil sheets and would paint on the colors after pulling out little strands with the comb, and the bottom part of my head was all brown, blending into mostly blonde at the top.
How do I say that in French? All I could do was point to a box of foils sitting on the counter, and I mimicked Steph, weaving a finger through a strand of hair, and Mme Astrid understood, opening the foils, saying, "Le meche, oui, il est plus naturel." I then tried to ask for two colors, but Mme Astrid only looked confused, so we left it at one.
I walked out of Mme Astrid's salon a little less brunette and a little more blonde, but the grey was once again nicely camouflaged and my ends were once again the same length.
The next time I needed a 'do I was in Barcelona, in the southeast corner of Spain, a region called Catalonia. This is where I discovered that the Catalan language is not Spanish. Fortunately, the word "meche" means the same thing in Catalonia as it does in France, so I did get grey-camouflaging color woven in with foils. There was a bit of miscommunication with trimming up a long layer, though, so I walked out with not just blonder, but also shorter tresses. Oh, well, it'll grow out.
Todd had been getting regular cuts throughout Europe, with consistently good results. Only the last one was a drastic change for him. Todd came home from the barber in Gouda, Netherlands with not his customary James Bond-looking style, but instead with a buzzed high-n-tight. He said to me, "I think probably everybody who goes to that barber gets this same cut." Oh, well, it'll grow out.
TIPS for successful future haircuts while in a non-English-speaking place:
- Research words in the local language that describe what you want before you go.
- Bring a photo of what you want your hair to look like.
- Remember, it'll grow out!
