I arrived at the hair salon at about 9:10 yesterday morning. My appointment was for 9:30, so I was early. The salon is called Nouvel'Hair, which sounds like nouvelle ère (a new era) or maybe nouvel air (a new look) since the H is silent in French. The young woman who owns and operates the salon was already at work. She was styling and cutting the hair of a man who was probably my age or even older. The man was accompanied by a woman I assume was his wife. There was a lot of chit-chat and I love to eavesdrop on French conversations.
When I walked in, the coiffeuse looked surprised and asked me if I had a rendez-vous. I said I thought I did, if I was in the right place. She said she also had a customer scheduled to arrive at 9:15. I took a seat in the waiting area and found an old issue of Paris-Match to read while I waited. I hoped I wasn't going to be there all morning, cooling my heels. Listening to the chit-chat and observing the action as discreetly as I could, I was surprised to see that the man in the chair getting his hair cut was bleeding from wounds on his right cheekbone and temple.
It turned out that he had fallen on the street just outside the salon a few minutes earlier. He and the woman with him said they needed to get his hair cut because they were going to a wedding later in the day. So the coiffeuse was combing and cutting his hair and also tending to his wounds. Pretty soon, the next customer, the one with the 9:15 appointment, came in and sat down in the waiting area with me. He was a young guy dressed all in black and with jet-black hair and a thick black beard.
We waited. It was nearly 9:30 when the older couple left the shop. The man was telling the coiffeuse that he was lucking not to have injured himself even more severely when he fell down. He hadn't even broken his glasses. The three of them chatted and giggled as they paid and then left the shop. In a snap she had the 9:15 customer in one of the chairs in the salon and was shampooing his hair. I was getting antsy, but all I could do was wait.
I wish I knew the coiffeuse's name, but I don't, and it's not on the card she gave me. Walt has an appointment with her tomorrow morning. Maybe he'll ask her what her name is. She was talkative and friendly. More importantly, she worked really fast. The had the young guy's hair washed in a flash, and then cut his hair just as quickly. The job she did on his hair looked really good, and the two of them, coiffeuse and client, seemed to know each other. They talked together quietly so I couldn't hear much of what they said. There was something to do with his having quit his job. Was the employer going to replace him, the coiffeuse asked. No, he said. That's about all I heard.
Then suddenly it was my turn. She continued to work very fast and in a way that inspired confidence. And she asked me a lot of questions about who I was, where I lived, what I did, how long I'd been here in the Saint-Aignan area, and whether I already spoke French when I came to live here 20 years ago. She asked if I have family in the area, and if I had children. I said no, no children and not relatives locally, but I do have a partner, un conjoint, so I don't live alone. Oh, she said, he must be French. No, I told her, he's from New York, but we actually met 40 years ago when we were both living in Paris. Oh, so you're two Americans living here, she said, with an air of disbelief.
She didn't seem nosy, but she was curious for sure. For once, somebody didn't ask me if I was a Brit. She did ask this question: do I hear a slight accent? She was polite about it. I'm used to that out here in the country, where most people, I believe, have never heard an anglophone actually speak French. Back when I lived in Paris (as a young man) nobody ever asked me that question. Maybe Parisians are just too busy to be bothered, and they hear French spoken with all sorts of accents all the time.
When I walked in, the coiffeuse looked surprised and asked me if I had a rendez-vous. I said I thought I did, if I was in the right place. She said she also had a customer scheduled to arrive at 9:15. I took a seat in the waiting area and found an old issue of Paris-Match to read while I waited. I hoped I wasn't going to be there all morning, cooling my heels. Listening to the chit-chat and observing the action as discreetly as I could, I was surprised to see that the man in the chair getting his hair cut was bleeding from wounds on his right cheekbone and temple.
It turned out that he had fallen on the street just outside the salon a few minutes earlier. He and the woman with him said they needed to get his hair cut because they were going to a wedding later in the day. So the coiffeuse was combing and cutting his hair and also tending to his wounds. Pretty soon, the next customer, the one with the 9:15 appointment, came in and sat down in the waiting area with me. He was a young guy dressed all in black and with jet-black hair and a thick black beard.
We waited. It was nearly 9:30 when the older couple left the shop. The man was telling the coiffeuse that he was lucking not to have injured himself even more severely when he fell down. He hadn't even broken his glasses. The three of them chatted and giggled as they paid and then left the shop. In a snap she had the 9:15 customer in one of the chairs in the salon and was shampooing his hair. I was getting antsy, but all I could do was wait.
I wish I knew the coiffeuse's name, but I don't, and it's not on the card she gave me. Walt has an appointment with her tomorrow morning. Maybe he'll ask her what her name is. She was talkative and friendly. More importantly, she worked really fast. The had the young guy's hair washed in a flash, and then cut his hair just as quickly. The job she did on his hair looked really good, and the two of them, coiffeuse and client, seemed to know each other. They talked together quietly so I couldn't hear much of what they said. There was something to do with his having quit his job. Was the employer going to replace him, the coiffeuse asked. No, he said. That's about all I heard.
Then suddenly it was my turn. She continued to work very fast and in a way that inspired confidence. And she asked me a lot of questions about who I was, where I lived, what I did, how long I'd been here in the Saint-Aignan area, and whether I already spoke French when I came to live here 20 years ago. She asked if I have family in the area, and if I had children. I said no, no children and not relatives locally, but I do have a partner, un conjoint, so I don't live alone. Oh, she said, he must be French. No, I told her, he's from New York, but we actually met 40 years ago when we were both living in Paris. Oh, so you're two Americans living here, she said, with an air of disbelief.
She didn't seem nosy, but she was curious for sure. For once, somebody didn't ask me if I was a Brit. She did ask this question: do I hear a slight accent? She was polite about it. I'm used to that out here in the country, where most people, I believe, have never heard an anglophone actually speak French. Back when I lived in Paris (as a young man) nobody ever asked me that question. Maybe Parisians are just too busy to be bothered, and they hear French spoken with all sorts of accents all the time.
I made an appointment for Walt for tomorrow morning. And I'm really happy with the haircut I got. It cost me just 15 euros, plus tip. And it was all interesting and kind of fun. Can you tell I don't get out much?
