The Always-Painful Visit to a French Hair Salon

(Warning, this is a long, babbling blog about nothing more than a trip to a hair salon.  Feel free to scroll to the bottom to skip the story and just see an updated baby bump picture.)

Once, not so long ago, in a far away land called South Carolina, I enjoyed going to the hair salon.  It was something I looked forward to.  An hour or two of pampering, someone "playing" with my hair (which I love!), and walking out feeling lighter, with my professionally styled hair. 

Then I moved to France.

I avoided getting my hair cut like the plague.  I didn't get my hair cut the first 4 months we lived here, and would cringe every time I saw how long my highlight roots were getting.  When I couldn't stand my hair any longer, I printed out a photo of what I wanted my hair to look like, so I could just point and say "comme ça".  My appointment was made with the manager (possibly owner?) of the salon, Nicolas (pronounced Neee-co-la).  The appointment went fairly well except for when the girl shampooing my hair asked me something and after about 5 minutes of gesturing and babbling, I figured out she was asking if I wanted conditioner after the shampoo.  Then there was the moment when Nicolas asked me to stand up for him to make the initial cuts.  I have never had to do this before in the US, so I was clueless about what he wanted. It took him practically pulling me up out of the chair to understand.  Now that I have conquered that fear, I have my hair cut fairly regularly, but still can't work up the courage to have highlights done in France.


After my last appointment, Nicolas suggested for the next time some sort of treatment they put in, leave in for 10 minutes, and it is supposed to make your hair "more brilliant".  One of the things I miss most about highlighting my hair is the lack of shine.  I just feel like my hair is dull.  So I was excited to hear about something I could do to bring back the shine.  It was time to make my next appointment, so I went in (making appointments over the phone is impossible) and the conversation went a little like this:


(of course Nicolas wasn't there, which would have made this all a little less painful)
Me:  Je voudrais un rendez-vous avec Nicolas.
Receptionist:  D'accord, quand...something something something (no problem, I knew she was asking when I wanted my appointment to be...)
Me:  La semaine prochain. 
Et aussi, la dernière fois, Nicolas m'a dit qu'il y a quelque chose pour...um...faire le brilliance???
Receptionist:  (confused look on face) Uh... something something something...

Then she turns around and goes to get someone else to try to help.  Another girl comes and she seems to understand what I am asking for.  Then I have to stumble through asking her if it is safe for me since I am pregnant (insert lots of gesturing and rubbing my belly here).


That brings us to my appointment day.  I go in, tell them my name, they take me upstairs, and I am told someone will come soon.  So far, so good!  A young girl comes up and walks me to the shampoo chairs and asks, "Quel nom?"  Oh, how nice (I think to myself), she wants to know my name, that is so friendly.  

"Kim"
blank stare
(ok, I need to say it with a French accent)
"Keeem" (then I spell it for her) "Ka-e-emm"
blank stare

Then she walks over and picks up a book, opens it up, and starts pointing to all the hair color samples. Ohhh, she is asking me the name of the color.  
"Non, pas de couleur.  C'est, uh, um... je ne sais pas le nom..."  ("No, not color. It is, I don't know the name")

So she starts opening cabinets and pulling out bottles and powders, showing me all the different products.  This is the first time I have done this, I have no idea what it looks like!  So this starts the torturous/awkward period of time where we are just staring at each other, neither one knowing what to do next.  Thankfully, the girl that helped me make the appointment walked up at that moment and explained what I wanted.  Phew!


Ten minutes later, with whatever-it's-called in my hair, I was under the dryer.

Ten minutes and another shampoo later, it was time for my haircut with Nicolas.  He walks up, and I am already expecting him to ask some sort of question involving what I want done with my hair. I have several key vocabulary words in my mind that I am listening for.  Unfortunately, I didn't hear any of these words.  So, I just stared at him, and he said something else.  Which, again, I didn't understand any of it.  I just started laughing, because there was nothing else I could do.  Matthew says it is a good thing that my pregnancy hormones didn't kick in right then and cause me to sit there crying instead of laughing.  We finally worked it all out, and he started cutting.  We were able to carry on somewhat of a conversation, mostly about my pregnancy, when the baby was due, boy or girl, etc.  

As painful as it was, I survived.  But I am definitely looking forward to when we move home to the US and I can truly enjoy the hair salon experience again!

So, without further ado, here is a picture of my haircut (really just the same, but shorter, but with more shine!), and more importantly- an updated baby bump picture (32 weeks).