November 29, 2009

Hope everyone had a fabulous Thanksgiving. We had ravioli.

I had been noticing over the past few months that my hair had lost some of its natural highlights. This is probably due to the fact that Paris is pretty far north and the sun isn't as strong. So, I asked one of the few French women I know who has blonde highlights where she gets them done. As you can imagine, this is quite a dangerous question. First, you are telling this woman that you know she's a fraud. Second, you are admitting that you are a fraud. I was pretty sure I was safe, however, because this babe had dark brown roots (my roots are medium brown largely due, again, to the northern location of Paris). She was very happy to tell me all about highlights in France.

Apparently it is safer to have an organ transplant than to get your hair highlighted here. Since very few women have light-colored hair, very few of them want blonde highlights and, consequently, there are very few colorists who know how to make you look like a natural blonde. You could just as easily come out with orange or green hair, she told me. I thought about it later and realized that the only French blondes I've ever known were Brigitte Bardot (tramp) and Catherine Deneuve (icon, goddess, and even she's now a brunette).

She wrote down two phone numbers for me. Turns out it's quite a clandestine process to get your hair highlighted. She said to use her name if they gave me any trouble; if I called the second place, where they do brunette and red highlights as well, she said I should be sure to ask for a blonde specialist (I think I dated one of those in college).

Just to be safe, I called the first place. I got an appointment for the following week which I thought was pretty amazing. The place is called, I kid you not, Blondes. When I got there (it's down a little alley off a little street off another little street), I opened the door and.....

...it's a middle-aged Barbie factory!! The place is tiny; there are maybe four stations. In each chair was a woman between 40 and 70 at some stage of blondeness. Buzzing around them was Franck (the "c" is silent). Franck never actually looked me in the eye. He motioned me to a chair, picked up a few strands of my hair between thumb and forefinger, and looked at my roots, scowling furiously.

"What do you want?" he asked.

I stifled the impulse to be a smartass.

Instead, I apologized for my poor French and said I had recently arrived from the US.

"To see me, of course," he said.

"Of course," I replied.

"To become blonder," he said.

Quick on the uptake, that Franck.


He informed me that he would accept me as a client (apparently, making the phone call is only a first step), in spite of the fact that I did not have a small dog lying at my feet the way the other women did. A (blonde) assistant scurried over to prepare my hair.

When I was duly prepped, Franck returned with a palette and brushes! Sadly, no beret.

I had just started to relax and eavesdrop on the cellphone call of the woman next to me, when...



..."What ees thees?" Franck asked, jabbing his finger into my lap.

"A Kindle," I said.

"What ees thees Keendle?"

I explained the concept. Franck was outraged.

"You see thees? Thees Keendle?!" he shouted around the salon. His assistants all lowered their eyes and began furiously sweeping the floor. The other blonding women all looked up, terrified. It's not a good thing when your colorist is upset. Remember the orange and green?

"Eet will be the death of the library!" he shouted.

The four other middle-aged Barbies all murmured their agreement, shook their heads, and scowled at me. Eventually they went back to reading Vogue (not that they needed to).

"Where can I get one?" Franck whispered, clearly not quite as upset as he would have us believe.

Two hours later (without a hair cut; Franck only does blonde) I was out the door minus a down payment on a car. "You may come back in three months," he announced as I was leaving.

He did a fine job and I am pleased to report that I am back to my natural color.