We haven’t had much luck with finding a reliable hairdresser ‘a domicile’.
First there was young Marie who set up her own business in the village but she got fed up and found a job in a salon without bothering to tell her regular customers.
So we tried the yellow pages and met Virginie who was less expensive and did everyone’s hair to their liking but, unfortunately, last week when I tried to contact her she didn’t reply to any of the messages I left.
So it was back to the telephone directory and I made arrangements with a lady from Deville to come round this morning.
She arrived in a snazzy sports car – a slim, chic blonde wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
From the moment she stepped inside she didn’t stop talking until she left two and a half hours later.
Jay went first because he wanted to go out. As soon as she saw his bald patch she told him about a treatment to prevent further hair loss. Apparently a drug used to reduce high blood pressure had resulted in hair growth and so it was now marketed to rub on your head and massage in.
In between this we learned that she was ‘a professional’ and had been hairdressing for thirty years, owned several salons but preferred to paint whenever she had time.
She painted with a knife – mainly still life but also nudes and exhibited in her own atelier as well as in various places locally.
“You must come and see them” she said. “They start at 200 euros but most sell for around 700.”
“I’d like to see them, ” I replied, “but we couldn’t afford to buy one.”
When she got round to putting on my colour she explained again that she was a professional and most people expected home hairdressers to be cheaper but that wasn’t the case with her. She explained that my roots wouldn’t show up so much if I let her do ‘meches’ (two different colours).
I supposed that would be more expensive so I had better stick to just a normal colour while thinking to myself,
“Ooops – it’s a bit too late to send her packing now.”
She rattled on about her family, her job, her painting, sometimes asking questions but never letting me answer.
She admitted she lived life at a hundred miles an hour and had written off seven cars. She was only insured thanks to her husband’s insurance and he had threatened that if she had another accident there wouldn’t be a replacement vehicle.
She claimed she never asked a client what they wanted (I doubt she’d listen anyway) but they always ended up looking more beautiful than before.
CC begged to differ as, although she politely said she liked her new style when it was finished, she came to me in tears after and said it was the worst haircut she had ever had. The problem was that she refused to work in the bathroom in front of the mirror so we sat by the kitchen table unable to see what she was doing.
When it came to my cut and blo-dry I had the impression that she did not spend very long on the cutting part but she took quite a while to dry it – then put lacquer on before I could say I didn’t like the stuff. The finished result (above) makes me look as though I’m wearing a wig, according to my daughter – and I have to agree. However, the colour is OK despite the fact that my forehead and ears are stained too.
She cut Bear’s hair and he, at least, was happy with the result.
I made her a coffee and got out my cheque book.
“As I have done the whole family I’ll give you a special price” she began, but when she started to reel off her normal pricelist it was much more expensive than the local salon, so even with her ‘discount’ we were landed with a bill for 120 euros – nearly twice as much as I’m used to paying.
Looks like it’s back to the yellow pages again next time with a reminder to self to check prices in advance.