Day 24
This is our last full day in Montpellier and we’ve seen most of what we wanted to see so it will be an even more leisurely day than normal. There’s time to tidy up loose ends like go to the bank and get my hair cut.
I always enjoy getting my mane trimmed in far away places. My hair grows very quickly and a cut every four weeks works best to maintain my ‘look’.
We found several barbers nearby and I made an appointment at one but as I sat there it looked very high end for the 11ā¬ price that was marked on the wall. Fred brought up Google Translate and sure enough 11ā¬ was for a minor beard trim. It was 29ā¬ for a shampoo and cut. That’s half the price of a flight to Rome from here. So I did what I normally do and sought out the cheapest spot to get the job done, a barber school almost across the street. Wow, that was lucky.
It was only a 15 minute wait and then it was my turn to get a shampoo and get the show on the road. Firstly there was nobody past puberty who looked like they were in charge and nobody spoke an iota of English. The wifi didn’t work because of the eighteen inch thick stone walls so no translate app would function. So I decided to wing it. Afterall ‘what could go wrong’?
I had a lovely girl as my attendant. She looked full of confidence as she toweled my hair dry and led me to my seat in front of the mirror. We exchanged pleasantries, mostly by sign language and then it was time to begin.
I’ve had my hair done at a salon in Carcassonne by a mature experienced stylist and it turned out wonderfully. Then I took the plunge in Bucerias where a couple of inexperienced trainees turned my head into a mushroom, but it grew back in less than a week. But this would prove to be a horse of a different color. I realize that I’m using cliches that are more from my generation so I might be leaving my younger followers in the dust (another dated term). But bear with me on this journey.
In Mexico and Canada a number two plastic spacer attached to an electric shaver will leave the hair about 3/8 of an inch long; short, but reasonable. Apparently in France a numero deux means remove all impediments from the shaver contacting the scalp and press really, really hard so when you pass a chemo survivor in the street they will give you a knowing nod.
I was noticeably nervous and reiterated ‘numero deux’? It must have come across as ‘numero duh’ because she wasn’t reaching for anything other than to put my forehead into a clinch with the crook of her arm. Upon starting the shaver it had a perceptible high pitch tone indicating it was a hot rod variant of the normal version. I flinched imperceptibly and then she bent her arm in the ‘ready’ position.
With an electric shaver the first pass is the step of no return. My eyes half closed because of the pressure of her arm across my face, they started to tear up as if they knew of the impending consequences.
Brrrrrrip… brrrrrip and it was all over except for the crying. She had started at my collar and gouged a path to the crown of my head, twice! My mind reeled as I know how upset Carol gets when I try anything outside of the norm. That would eliminate a reverse mohawk but still left an opening for a reverse mullet. NOOOO! She would eventually see the back of my head was like a newborn chihuahua and slap me around more than a Greenpeace kayaker caught amongst an angry orca pod!
Brrrrrrip… scuff, scuff. It was then I noticed her training badge was handwritten, in pencil! Did she even go to school here? I opened one eye and one side of my head looked like a light bulb. WTF!!! How I longed for the shaggy look that I entered the shop with a mere 25 minutes ago. I could even see it on one side still clinging to life. The pile of hair on the apron on my lap looked like a grey cashmere sweater. I could have gathered it and sold it to a nursing home to make toupees, FOR EVERYBODY!
It only takes a minute to change a life. You could write a $1,000 cheque to World Vision and build a well, or buy six cows for a needy village. Or you could decide to do the withdrawl method after 10 beers at your best friend’s sister’s engagement party, OR you could take your chances at a French barber school.
Crap! I can’t even drink 10 beers and with the rising seas that village won’t even need a well because water will be lapping at their tents in a couple of years.
Eight minutes from start to finish and then she stood back, holding the clippers wide in one hand, and a convex mirror in the other, separated by a broad smile, and Tada! I wiped my eyes and wondered if the duck-billed hat that I had bought on a whim in Madrid would hide the pink glow that I was now the proud owner of. Heck, it would probably slide down over my ears with nothing to keep it in place. I went in with visions of looking like Clooney and instead I have the noggin of The Rock!
I could buy a jester’s hat with the twin points hanging down with dingle-balls on the end as a distraction, or a fireman’s hat, or a cheapo dunce cap, like I deserved!
I was almost 45 minutes late from when I was supposed to meet up with Carol, because I was supposed to go to the 11ā¬ beard place, and now that I stepped into the sunlight with data now engaged, a WhatsApp message came onto the screen. ‘Where are you’!! Uh-oh, this will not go very well at all. Saving a few euros won’t disguise the fact that we will be eyeball to eyeball for weeks before this turns into something nearing acceptable.
I could always push back with the fact that she no longer resembles Lauren Bacall, or that her pants are a little more taut in the derriere since we left, but dropped those ideas immediately. Take it like a man I decided. Buy her flowers, offer to give her that shoulder massage that she’s been begging for, or buy her a new travel pillow (she’s very practical).
If there’s another post to follow this one you know the travel pillow idea worked. Darn it’s cold out here, somebody close the window.
Blue Delivery 