February 28, 2010

Rob took the girls to Ireland. They were glad to hear English and enjoyed themselves.



We celebrated Erin's 9th birthday yesterday. She went to Aquaboulevard with Rob, which is a massive indoor water park. They had a great time, although Rob was forced to wear a Speedo. For some reason, baggy swim shorts are not allowed. Erin was traumatized but we are hopeful that, in time and with intensive therapy, she will be able to put the Speedo thing behind her.

Last week I went to see my old friend Franck (the 'c' is silent) at Blondes. For some reason, probably the long gray winter, my natural highlights have not yet appeared. Franck was not in a good mood. He was waving his arms around and shouting about the fact that the stereo system wasn't working. I offered to sing, but he just scowled at me.

I decided to try to make polite conversation. "So," I chirped, "someone told me that the French don't like blondes." In retrospect, this was a colossally stupid thing to say on my part, given the fact that Franck's professional life is devoted to turning French women into blondes.

He scowled at me. "Someone told me that Americans are all fat," he snapped. Ouch. After a few more pathetic attempts at conversation, I gave up. Franck was in no mood. His assistant showed up a few minutes later.

"You're late and the stereo doesn't work!" he shouted. "I cannot work without music." He shot a warning glance in my direction, lest I say something perky that he didn't want to hear.

His assistant was near tears. "I'm sorry, Franck, but there was an accident on the metro and we sat underground for an hour. I tried to call you."

"Did anyone die?" he asked her, as if merely being maimed by a speeding train was no reason to shut down the line. She didn't know.

"Well," he shouted, "I heard telephone ring and I did not answer it! Do you know why?"

At this moment, he was armed with his highlighter brush and palette and looked like a deranged artist.

The assistant shook her head, terrified.

"Because," Franck said, "I was thought it was Monique!"

The assistant whispered, "Monique from yesterday?"

"Monique from two weeks ago, from one week ago, from yesterday, and from last night!!" Franck said.

Apparently, Monique was not happy with her first set of highlights. She asked Franck to redo them, which he did. Then, she wasn't happy with those, so she asked Franck to do them yet again. The day before, apparently, she had appeared one more time and said there was something wrong with one of the strands of hair near her temple. He tried again. Then, the night before she had called him at 11 pm and complained yet again. It occurred to me that maybe she was one of those French people that doesn't like blondes, but I kept this to myself.

Franck lost it. He told her never to set foot in his salon again. He told her that he had long since passed the age where he could deal with such a woman. He told her that clearly, she was unhappy in general, and her dissatisfaction with her hair was just a symptom of the fact that she was crazy.

Now, I thought this story was fairly hilarious. But when Franck saw me smiling, he was furious. He started yelling at me.

"You think this is funny? You think I need to be treated in this way by crazy ladies?"

Franck was distraught. He kept pressing his middle fingers to his temples. Finally he looked at himself in the mirror.

"You see what this woman has done to me? You see my face? My skin?" he demanded. He did look a little pale and clammy, even for a French guy. At this point, I was afraid to say anything so I shut up for once.

He left and went back in the back of his salon, returning with a large fluffy makeup brush covered with powder. He took a deep breath and ran the brush expertly over his face. He put the brush away and took several deep breaths. Then, he examined himself again. I must say, he did a fabulous job. His skin tone was even, not too caky; luminous, even.

Everyone in the salon was silent. Would Franck recover? Could he get through this?

Miraculously, he composed himself. He picked up the highlight brush again and got back to work. At that moment, the sweet strains of Boy George tinkled through the salon. Franck permitted himself a small smile. The assistant had fixed the stereo!

Franck started to tap his foot as he worked. Then, he started humming "do you really want to hurt me; do you really want to make me cry..."

Finally, his hips started to swivel a bit. The assistant caught my eye and gave me a barely perceptible nod. Franck was going to be okay.

When he was finished with me and his assistant had dried my hair, he came over and fluffed it.

"It is perfect, no?" he said. It wasn't really a question.

"Absolutely," I gushed.

I'm thinking of waiting until I get back to the US to do any more highlighting.