I've only really dabbled in French lessons.  Being a total do-it-yourselfer with everything in life-from my Ikea bookshelves in the living room to the plumbing fixes in the kitchen to playing the guitar-I decided to teach myself French.  This was before we moved to France.  Of course that never really helped, but I do remember those first few lessons.  I remember wondering why so much emphasis was placed on visiting the pharmacy, buying your bread and getting your hair done.  How often had those things come up in my pre-France life?  I visited the pharmacy maybe once or twice a year when I would get a cold or flu.  I never went to a bakery.  I got my haircut perhaps two or three times a year.  These places were not as important as, say, the grocery store or the bank. 

And so I learned helpful phrases such as Je suis coiffeuse.  Je vais a la boulangerie.   And J'ai une ordonnance pour la varicelle. (Just making sure you're paying attention.)  I knew these phrases would never be helpful.  I'd never be able to work "je suis coiffeuse" into a conversation.  The point of that exercise, I assume, was to teach you the proper "je suis coiffeuse" over the improper "je suis une coiffuese".  The point was not to train you how to become one. 

I remember reading in some guidebook that many Anglos get quite nervous about visiting the hairstylist in France and so purposely seek out English-speaking coiffeuses.  I thought that was kinda funny.  It's not as though getting your hair cut is as important as, oh, say, chemotherapy.  Right?  I'd kinda like to have an English-speaking oncologist so I understand exactly what's going on in the event that I get really, really ill here.  But cutting hair?  It will grow back.  I've always gotten away with "See voo play, ku pay sank centruh mitruh" coupled with the international sign language for scissors. 

Then I decided I wanted something different. 

So I went into a Franck Provost, where they're so damn glam they don't even accept reservations.  I tried.  They wouldn't let me.  But they would take me straight away.  Toot Sweet. 

My designated coiffeuse had a terrible hairstyle.  This should have been a huge red flag.  The kind that makes you feign a stomachache so you can turn around and run home without offending them.  She looked like a pre-drug rehab Jerri Blank from Strangers with Candy. 

She asked what I wanted.  I said I would like a perm, please.  Non, non, non.  She shook her finger.  Pas avec vos cheveux.  C'est trop lissant.  She was telling me my hair was too fine and lanky.  This I knew, but it was strange that she had an opinion.  Promising, I guess, that she took her job so seriously and wanted good results.  A true métier. 

Jerri walked away and came back with an oversized book of hairstyles.  Why are these books so huge?  She plopped the book in my lap and flipped to what she thought would look good with my hair type and face shape.  Both of her hands, wrists and upper arms were covered in small, black, unevenly spaced tattoos.  Tattoos of what?  Little scribbles?  A To-Do list, maybe?  A personal manifesto?  An homage to the Unibomber? 

Red flag number two. 

With my mind trying to figure out how she managed to become gainfully employed with upper limbs hieroglyphically perma-inked, I tacitly agreed on a short, curly hairstyle.  She mumbled something about how this might be a lot of work for me to keep up, to which I said pah duh phoblem.  Right?  I mean, I have no idea what all that mumbling was about.  Wash-n-go: that's my style! 

Jerri started cutting away rapidly.  While she was cutting, her lips and eyes and eyebrows and cheeks would scrunch up, pop out and grimace.  She would bite her tongue.  Chew the side of her mouth.  Roll her eyes around.  Was she high or just neurotic?  Either way, she clearly pre-dated the psych eval for her métier.  Red flag number three. 

I decided to pretend as though all was well with the world.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  No, she won't accidentally cut my ears off if I stay really still.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  This will be over soon.  Don't stare at her facial expressions and/or tattoos. 

When she was done, my hair looked great.  I genuinely thought so.  What a nice change.  Short up top and a bit long down the back of my neck.  Some feminine layers.  I said, hey, I don't think I need the perm to give it some curl; I think this is just great.  She agreed.  Then she asked me if I wanted just a little "flash perm" down the sides just to frame the face.  Oh, heck, sure, I said.  Why not?  This psych-eval pre-dater had, for the first time ever, done something different with my hair and so I was going to let her do whatever she wanted.  My white flag to her three red ones. 

She came over with the perm cart.  She prepared her solution.  She painted it on part of my hair.  The part that frames the face.  Just like she said.  When she was done, she handed me a magazine, offered me a coffee and placed one of those space-age heaters over my head. 

I flipped through the magazine.  There was a horoscope section.  My horoscope for this week:  "Vous êtes une victime consentante".  Wow.  That's pretty harsh.  Normally my horoscope is something innocuous and useless like "Seeing things as they are keeps you plenty busy on Monday".  You are the consenting victim.  This was ominous.  I glanced up at the mirror and looked at the reflection of little squares of aluminum foil wrapped around chunks of creamed hair. 

Oh.  My.  God.  She didn't.  She couldn't have.  Jerri forgot to put the curlers in.  She said perm.  That means curls, right?  Hey, no, wait, she said "flash perm" instead of "perm".  I wonder if there's a difference?  It must mean something like, um, some sort of semi-permanent perm.  "Flash" as in quick or washes out in six to eight shampoos.  Yeah, something like that.  Maybe "flash" gives it a wave sans curlers? 

Or maybe, a little voice deep inside said, "flash" as in lightening.  Lightening as in to lighten?  But she didn't ask me about which color . . .

I read through the rest of my horoscope.  What else did this omniscient magazine wish to convey to me today?  It said that I share my birthday with Ukrainian-born model Milla Jovovich.  What's the significance of that?  I have no idea!  There was a little photo of perfectly coiffed Milla, wearing a very pretty dress and looking at me as though she were saying, "You do realize that you're the consenting victim?  Not me.  You."  For some odd reason, she said this in a rather highbrow Oxbridge accent. 

When the timer buzzed, Jerri brought me over to the sink for another shampoo.  When we got back to the mirror, my suspicions were confirmed: flash as in lightening. 

I am Jerri's consenting victim. 

And I guess Jerri there thought I was really hip because she actually gave me what all the kids these days call "chunking" highlights.  Platinum blonde chunks.  Contrasted against my dark brown hair, they may as well have been white.  Ladies and gentlemen, you may call me skunkhead and-while it's all been real fun-it's time for me to make my exit from Franck Provost before I get purple chunking. 

I said wow, yeah, this is great, Jerri, thanks, I think I need to get going now.  I quickly rolled up the magazine and stuck it in my bag, taking it with me as a souvenir.  No, I did not complain.  The problem was on my end.  I agreed to something for which I did not really know the English translation.  I only thought I did.