You know, it’s the oddest thing. I noticed it in France and now the same thing here in Vevey and La Tour-de-Peilz. The most common place of business is a bakery, right? Not even close. I’ve never seen so many hair salons in my life, sometimes three right in a row.

This surprises me in these cultures where the majority of women have long hair piled haphazardly on their heads. Don’t misunderstand me, they all look très chic, but their haircuts are either very simple or, just to be totally honest, very bad. Let’s just say the concept of even layers has yet to catch on in this part of the world.

Anyone who has been following along here for any amount of time knows that I’ve made some interesting hair decisions over the last few years. Like that time I walked in with shoulder length, bottle blonde tresses and left with the silver scarecut. After two years of having very short hair, I decided it was time for a change.

Now I knew it would be painful letting a razored pixie cut fly free, and it is. The last haircut I had was over 6 months ago. I’ve been cutting the bangs myself, which explains why I can only see out of my left eye. Maybe a picture will give you a better idea of the current state of my head…

I’ve seen farm animals that look better coiffed than I do. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed up to grow out, but with all the drama of moving, and now a bewildering array of stylists, I mean where to start? I suppose one could probably research the internet for reviews or ask a saleswoman in a trendy boutique for some names.

Or you could go for the insane foreign lady approach: spend 15 minutes lurking outside a salon where you saw what appeared to be a chic (and even) haircut, pretending to read important emails on your phone. My plan was to wait until she emerged, politely compliment her and ask if she would be so kind as to offer me the name of her stylist. Genius idea, n’est-ce pas?

I got so caught up in whatever foolishness I’d uncovered on Twitter that I missed her leaving. Then I panicked, thinking this was my one shot at a decent haircut, so, naturally, I had to chase her down the main street of a picturesque Swiss town, waving frantically and calling out, “Madame, Madame! Les cheveux!!”

She was no match for my bandy legs and, true, I almost knocked her down when she stopped short to get in her car. But, while she clearly thought I was a raving lunatic, she gave me a name, so what the hell do I care what she thinks of me?

I’m off to place my head in the hands of Philippe this very morning. Of course, you know bloody well who’ll be sitting in the chair next to me with her colour processing, cell phone ready to dial animal control to come scoop me up with a big net if I even glance her way. I just pray Monsieur Philippe didn’t see me tackle his client in the street that day. I guess I’ll know if he’s waiting for me with scissors in one hand and a tranquilizer gun in the other.

 

 

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