Is that me?

This is not me, but might be my blond colour

I've just come back from an afternoon at the hairdresser's. Colour, meches, cut, blowdry, the whole nine yards, quoi. Cost an arm and a leg but I think it shows i.e. I look spruced up and no longer a root-showing lacksadaisical scruff which is what I really am at heart.

While I was there I was offered a make-up session for free. The salon has a beauty salon a couple of doors away and if business is slow, one of the girls comes in and offers hand massages or make-up. I usually get offered the massage, today I must have looked in dire need of the make-up.

Maybe the previous evening's late night dvd and rosé wine session with my TWDB was showing a tad. Anyway, I don't take offense easily (unlike some who never seem to stop) and readily agreed to beautification. The girl herself was lumpy and ungainly. Not exactly the glamorous beautician whose svelte good looks has all us lesser mortals grinding our teeth. She had nice make-up though so I supposed she knew what she was doing.

Actually she did a good job considering that the material she was working with had more than a touch of sun from the weekend, eyes that watered whenever she went near them and a head full of colouring hair. I suddenly thought I should really be taken out to dinner on this rare occasion when I look a lot better than usual, but my TWDB is on his Gerlinea diet this week so I'd probably have to take myself out and that's of limited fun.

Hours later (or so it seemed - I went through two lots of Gala and one VSD although, yawningly boring, it didn't take long...) I was having the meches sorted, then the whole lot was cut and dried. Pity I wasn't dressed up for the occasion but was wearing my ratty old sandals. Time for some new ones, thought I recklessly. Off I headed to the nearest shoe emporium and found... nothing. Nothing that suited, nothing that suited that was in my size, and any likely contenders when tried on were unbearably uncomfortable. So I put my ratty old sandals back on and, by now, bored stiff of the whole business, went home.

I can't have anything to nibble or drink until I see my TWDB because my lipstick will bugger off and I want him to see me professionally sorted. Damn. I should have bought the lipstick - a raspberry-type colour, lovely for summer, but I was reeling somewhat from the cost so decided to leave it until another time. Bad choice.

I also got a 10% off voucher for a 'soin' at the beauty salon and now can't decide whether to spend it on a pedicure or face massage. Agonising, isn't it, decision-making?

Hairless Today...

I seem to be writing a lot of mountain biking (VTT) posts at the moment. It's not that there's nothing else going on, or nothing else to comment on or write about. I had my hair cut yesterday, for example. A re-look in fact - all chopped off and even blonder. There comes a point when one is fed up with long hair, that it doesn't seem to suit any more, and that with summer looming, one might just as well go for something shorter and cooler although I'll have to remember to slap on the sunscreen.

Here then, is new me. I spent 4hrs in the hairdresser's because my roots had to be coloured, then chopped, then the highlights put in and then a final chopping and drying.

Waiting for the colour to take, I picked up a couple of numbers of VSD magazines and read about the credit crisis passing by the world's young rich, and the problems faced by illegal Malian immigrants when they are returned to their country of origin. If they are sent back they take nothing and are considered shameful by the family, but if they volunteer, the French government gives them 5000Euros and those that take it use it usually to start a business. Then an article by Yann Arthus-Bertrand on his new tele programme giving us 10yrs to save the world from over-consumption destruction.

That depressed me so much I put the magazine down and turned to my book instead.

Meanwhile most of the locals seemed to pop in for one reason or another. It was a very lively place this hairdresser's with lots of badinage and chit-chat. I was told that her son was divorced mainly because his ex-wife didn't want to live in Monaco but insisted on coming back to Montpellier, spurred on at every turn by her mother who didn't believe daughters should live any further than next-door. Montpellier is the centre of the universe (not Perpignan's gare, sorry Dali) and there is no reason to go cavorting off to live elsewhere, and especially not Monaco!

I sympathised with my hairdresser (Joyce) because Monaco is not that bad, and mothers shouldn't have such a toxic influence on their children to the point where they break up marriages and prevent children from seeing their fathers.

Then the pompier father of one of the stylists came in to say hello to his daughter, give her a kiss and have a coffee, followed by some more local guys who came in to fix the air-conditioning, and have a coffee.

Regulars were greeted warmly with bises - they'd probably been coming for the last 20yrs at least - and noobies were welcomed as potential future regulars. One woman limped in with a broken leg and frizzy hair and asked if they could do anything about it. She was sat down and a discussion ensued about her lifestyle, hair habits and desires. Following the revelation that she does nothing to her hair, swims in the sea a lot and wants a no fuss style, I would have suggested a number 1 razor job so it was a good thing I was not the professional there. Instead it was decided that her hair was so dry nothing could be done (except a number 1 razor job) to improve it without a couple of weeks' attention. She went off happily with a bag full of enriched shampoo, conditioner and super rich hair mask - 70Eur the lot and told that she would see a big difference already with properly cared for hair. Then she could come back and discuss defrizzing.

There were older ladies having a shampoo and set, a couple of guys getting a mowing and a young man with dark spikey hair and a few blonde streaks at the front who seemed to be a student and kept practising putting in rollers on a lifeless model in the back. That or standing around observing, and making me edgy.

Finally, a teacher came in with a dumpy ado and asked about the possibility of fixing up a little work experience for her as she was a nice girl because if she wasn't worth the trouble the teacher would not be standing there wasting her time. There's charming...

It's not nearly so convivial where I used to get my hair cut. A couple of sessions in this new place and I'll know the whole quarter!

Anyway, I reckon lovely motherly Joyce did a great job, and my TWDB loves it too. The boys couldn't decide but this morning seemed to have got over the change and treated me with their usual matinal insouciance.

I've even got a fidelity card so I can become a regular and get 10Eur off my tenth session. Not quite as generous as some of the chains, but still better than my old cardless hairdresser.

I'll be back...

Behold la Blonde!

By popular demand (of one - thanks, Gigi!), here I am as a blond bombshell... Not quite the platinum beach babe, but blonder than I was.

I went to see our Boris down the road and told of my cunning plan to go blond and thus be excused forevermore of any vile criticism of ditsiness, being able to put all down to, well, she's blond, what d'you expect...? He uttered the words, "yes, we'll do meche" (streaks - sounds more sophisticated and less like the addition of go faster stickers). So there I sat while he meched away and I wondered, as you do, what the effect would be like with the auburn. Would I turn out like an ageing autumn leaf?

Roughly two hours later, after I'd waded through Gala magazine, gazing in horrified glee at the utter pointlessness of it all, I was staring at me in all my blondiness. I looked almost the same as I had when I was lusciously auburn, just the other side of red.

The photo is crap, I know, it's actually a reflection of myself! With the softer focus taken through the mirror, I don't look quite as ghastly as I did in the glare of the fading light of the bathroom. I think it's quite cinematic in fact.

They didn't even notice at work. I do wonder sometimes, why I bother...

Cue Blond Jokes

So I'm thinking of going blond. Then I would have an excuse for being ditsy and no one would mind.

Actually I've been a sort of light auburny colour for a very long time now, and am getting bored. Summer is rather a good season for doing daft things because I can blame it on the heat getting to my head, so it's the moment to do it.

When I was six I was a lovely little blond thing with greeny blue eyes. Then my hair went mousey, I ceased to be a lovely little thing and became a revolting mess of adolescent features. Not the pubescent cuteness of many young things of today for me. I had to wait another ten years or so before I became presentable.

Mind you, I'm banking on this late-arrived presentableness hanging on into decrepitude. Many cute young things go off once they hit their mid-thirties and turn into sharp-featured old bats. Maybe if you hit surface attractiveness a bit later, you can expect more mileage out of it.

Anyway, back to being blond, I thought I might go a gentle shade of honey blond. What I won't do is go platinum. I'd look a right tart and like death only just warmed up.

French women have a funny attitude to hair colour. They often go for really outlandish shades, mostly based on a colour I call virulent aubergine. The sheer unnaturalness of this on the head of a woman of a certain age (once they hit 50 it's down the coiffeur's for a perm and a nice bit a' colour) is quite stunning. To start with, it's deeply unflattering. The colour is too intense and too dark for many skin types and just drains them of their remaining life.

Of course, you won't find this colour on women like Carla Bruni. No, it's reserved for normal women in normal towns who do things like wait outside the school gates and preserve French beans in sterilized pots. These women are dressed in saggy-kneed leggings, or cheapo jeans or some other sartorially inelegant garment. A few appear in work clothes, but none turn up in Chanel suits or YSL tailored trousers.

I've made an appointment with Boris down the road for Saturday morning. My head will be in his hands, and I'm counting on him to render me blondly superb. This might be something of a tall order however. Going blond will not suddenly make my legs grow an extra 5 inches or take 15 years off my face, but you know what they say: 'a change is as good as a rest' although I am resting quite a lot at the moment what with lounging about on sunbeds for hours on end, but it's the thought that counts...

I just hope it will not all end in tears... or go green in the pool!

On the hoof

The weekend flew by in a heady whirlwind of activity, much of it unplanned which made it seem even headier.

The boys announced, on Friday, that they wanted their hair cut, but not by me (sniff sniff) despite the fact that I am an ace cutter of hair even if I do say myself... No, they wanted something more stylish and assumed (probably rightly) that I'd make a botch job of it. They were still enthusiastic even when I told them they'd have to come to Intermarché with me because that's where the non-rdv salon is, and normally I can't drag them out on a Saturday morning for love nor money. Actually I haven't tried money...

So while I trailed up and down the aisles, they sat in comfort and splendour being primped and pampered. Looking at my youngest's gel'd crest and my eldest's spikes I grudgingly admitted that they looked much smarter and snazzier than had I been snipping, but funnily enough I was left to cough up the dosh to pay for their new looks...

After an afternoon of footie in drizzle and supper out with a bottle of chablis and brown Cuban Bacardi (pal B's been having fun in the Duty Free...!), on Sunday we took advantage of the national cinema festival where all tickets were 3.50Eur instead of 8Eur. It's a measure designed to ensure that culture is within the means of all which I think is fab, because our seats cost 10.50Eur instead of 24.

We watched The Water Horse (Ke Dragon des Mers) which everyone enjoyed, including me. The story was enchanting, the scenery stunning and the acting perfectly good. I thought the music was a bit naff in places, especially at the Save Willy moment when 'Nessie' tries to jump an anti-submarine net but apart from that, for a kiddie film, I hadn't minded spending 10Eur to watch it. Needless to say, the place was packed. People are keen to take advantage of every opportunity to get out and about at reduced rates or free entry. Luckily we had got there before lunch, bought the tickets, then eaten at MacDo and then come back in plenty of time to get a good seat. You have to be ruthless at these events, or you arrive too late and everything's sold out.

The weekend finished with another unplanned supper party from which I tottered happily back up the hill, with boys equally delighted at their evening's amusements.

I just about got the housework done, squeezed in between other more exciting activities!

Jason & the Corri-naughts

I always enjoy going to the hairdresser. I'm either locked into a Paris Match world or the goings on of people I've barely heard of in celebrity magazines, or I'm listening, enthralled, to the real life that's parading before my eyes.

Today in my favourite Jean Vallon salon the leggy brunette come blond was not there re-colouring her locks. It was the end of the day, and things were winding up for the evening. The owner of the salon whose name escapes me but would have to be something like 'Jason' was to cut my wayward locks after they had been coloured by she-of-duck-feet. Up until the wash basin I was out of it, consumed in a world where George Clooney was saying he was a confirmed bachelor (*sob*), Sego was getting fashionista advice on how to perk up her rather staid outfits and Whitney Houston was re-emerging into life after escaping from her disasterous marriage to whatisname.

Gripping stuff as I'm sure you'll agree. Still, it came to an end when my colour had 'taken' and had to be washed out. I was then left at the basin with 'soin' doing it's soin-ful thing on my now colourful head, without fascinating reading material. Within seconds however, I was aware of a terribly interesting conversation going between Jason and a female client of a certain age.

For my last few visits to this salon, strange but colourful paintings have appeared dotted about amongst the mirrors. They have one theme - la corrida (bull fighting) and blare out at you from vivid fushias, reds, yellows and golds. I wouldn't say they lacked imagination but that, in my humble opinion, is about all they don't lack.

I suppose it should be no surprise to learn that these paintings are the work of Jason (and this is my friend Sandy) and he has actually put prices on his work (around 80€). He was discussing painting then, with client-of-a-certain-age, who, it turned out, also enjoyed dabbling in acrylic. Painting is actually a pretty expensive business, and they were discussing this aspect of the creative muse at one point. Overheard was a comment along the lines of "well, you should go to la Foire Fouille and buy the paintings there for 5€ and paint over them! It's a much cheaper source of canvas". Staggered, I opened my ears wider to catch more pearls of wisdom with which to share with all you budding Monets.

As the hairdryer was turned on, however it was as if a spy had entered the room and had decided to drown out his secret conversation by running the bath. Much good did wagging my ears do me; I couldn't make out anything of note.

When Jason turned his attention to me, however, I decided I didn't want to broach the topic of art too closely - you never know what they'll ask you - but skirted the issue by addressing the world of the internet.

Jason had never heard of blogs and said he didn't have internet at home although he frolicked on the keyboard ivories when he visited friends. He had never heard of RyanAir, so I presume he didn't venture north much which, for a trendy hairdresser, surprised me. I waxed lyrical about the wonders of blogging, and how, with a digital camera, he could exhibit his paintings for all cyberspace, or just stock pictures of them privately for posterity. As I left (having hoped I had reached the tenth free session, but found to my chagrin that I was only on number 9), I wrote down for him the address of the Promo'Arts blog and suggested he might like to have a look the next time he had the opportunity. He was most pleased and said he would. I may have another convert on my hands, and, better still, maybe another member for our association. I'll have to nip back with a brochure...

Just as long as he doesn't ask to exhibit...

Hair Today

In preparation for the New Year festivities in the UK, I paid a visit to my coiffeuse, Véro, chez Jean Vallon on Wednesday. It's a place I've been frequenting on and off for many years now. At one point though, I spurned the camp zebra-print sofa provided while you wait for a service à domicile with Crystelle, who staggered along the unfinished paths to my doorstep with her equipment.

She was a lot cheaper than the salon, and we had a good old natter while waiting for the colour to take, but she is so successful that you have to be pretty well organised about booking her in advance. Unfortunately, I'm the 'oh my god, I've got to get my hair done this week or bust' type, which meant I was forever being told kindly but firmly that she was unavailable. At which point I would revert to Véro who could always fit me in somewhere.

So now I've accepted the inevitable. I rang the salon on Tuesday afternoon for an appointment the next afternoon and was fitted in as smoothly as a well-kept hand into a silk glove.

We hear a lot about morose French service industry workers, but in Jean Vallon they are a cheery, smiley bunch who always make you feel you are a good client, which I am. Véro cuts hair, so another nice girl did the colour and I was able to admire her tiny French frame and the way her belt seemed able to suspend itself on her hips without working its way up, or down.

Next to me was a scene of intense activity. A young woman in her early 20s was turning from a brunette into a blond. This involved several stages of work. Her hair had to be uncoloured and then coloured blond. It was taking ages. She was at the uncolouring stage when I joined her at the mirrors. Her mother was passing protective cotton wool strips to place at root level while the 'bleach' was applied and massaged into the long strands of hair.

My own colour applied, I sat and read 'Challenges' magazine instead of a trashy women's one because it had a section on what studies lead to jobs. So, for example, general engineers are 80% likely to get a good job on leaving university. Those doing media studies have a 39% chance of a job most of which will be through a temporary contract. I was reading with the RA and my eldest in mind as it also gave information on what makes a CV stand out from the banality of most.

Back at the mirror, Ms Decap was standing up to make her way to the basins. It took a long time for her to do this as her legs emerged as being very long, perched as they were on 4 inch heels, with a very very short flimsy skirt over thick patterned tights. A thought flitted across my mind that my mother would have blown a gasket had I appeared in such an outfit, so obviously her mother, who was sitting admiring her daughter as she strode over to the basins, had a laxer attitude than mine...

I was by now sitting on the cutting side of the room. The hot water had run out just before the conditioner on my hair was washed off, so I had to endure a chilly rinse which froze me to the core. I sat, warming up, while Véro snipped, and watched, fascinated while Ms Decap had her hair dried. It had come out a virulent orange yellow and she gawped at it, horrified, holding her nose, maybe to stop herself snorting. I tell you, it was most entertaining.

Her coiffeuse was not in the slightest perturbed as it was completely normal for brown hair to decolour like this. Had she left it like that, she could have made a fortune on street corners. Still, it had to be blondified, so she went back to the colouring side of the room to have the 'bleach' applied, and when I left, she was still waiting for it to take.

She would look extremely stunning when it was finished, I'm sure. With those legs, and long blond hair, she'd drive many men wild, which I'm sure was the aim. She would be all set to have a fantastically fun New Year!

My more modest cut and colour were beautifully executed as usual even though the girls were extremely busy, had been working last Sunday and would be working this Sunday too. I am very excited by the fact that I have been there now 9 times, so next time I go, I'll get a free session.

I did envy those legs though...