A hairy situation in Dijon
Trust the process they said.
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Joyeuses fêtes!
Sacha
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After a month in France, I needed a hair intervention to deal with serious gray roots. So even though my hair can be a moody little bitch diva, and despite my best instincts, I booked an appointment at a “natural hair color” salon that came highly recommended by a lovely woman we met at a jazz bar.
Did I ask what “natural color” meant? Did I understand anything on the website? Did my colorist speak any English? No, but I figured that in a country with nearly one coiffeur for every man, woman, and child, surely she would know what she was doing.
Jason, God bless him, accompanied me to the salon, where he chatted amiably with my stylist and graciously translated her questions. “She wants to know what color you want,” he said. I pointed to a photo from the salon’s Instagram feed of a woman with long, lush, coppery red hair. “C’est tres jolie,” I said, trying to ingratiate myself to her before embarking on the beauty version of a trust fall.
The colorist asked me a few more questions about my hair history and was appalled when I told her that I normally dye my hair myself, and with drugstore dye, no less. She also asked if I had cut my hair myself—rude! (But also occasionally true.)
After the interrogation, she disappeared and returned with a bowl of thick brownish-green mud with a distinctly earthy aroma. Ugh, henna. Of course! Why did I not realize this sooner? I had used henna a few times in college when we were all trying to be “natural” and shit, and I remembered how unpredictable it could be. Before I could fully process what was happening, the colorist had started painting the manure-like concoction on my hair.
It was too late to make a run for it, and I thought screaming for help might be too dramatic, so I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best. Unfortunately, I also had plenty of time to ponder all the possible outcomes — green hair! purple hair! bald patches! — and wonder what I had gotten myself into.
When the colorist was done, she moved me to another spot where I was told to relax for an HOUR while the dye worked its magic. By that point, several (other) women of a certain age had come in to get their hair done. Two ended up like me with mud pies on their heads, and the other got her hair cut meticulously by another stylist.
The salon buzzed with chatter and laughter, and then everyone started playing a lively game of “guess my age.” “No, no! There’s no way you’re 72!” “You don’t look anywhere near 55!” a stylist told his client. “I’m 55, too,” I interjected. They all smiled at me kindly. I must admit that in my vulnerable state, it was comforting to be surrounded by my menopausal peers while I sat there looking like an alien from Star Wars.
It took forever for the colorist to wash the gook out of my hair, and another stylist came over and joked that my green hair didn’t look bad at all. Hah! Hah! It was a classic salon joke, but I was not amused. Once the mud was rinsed out, she sat me in front of the mirror, and my stomach dropped.
My hair was the color of a persimmon.
One of the two mud-laden women, who had soothing grandma vibes, came over to examine me. Under the unflattering fluorescent lights, my roots had a yellow tinge. “C’est normal,” she cooed when she saw how freaked out I was. She continued chatting with my colorist while I sat there imagining the worst. “Oh, just tell her it‘ll be fine. She doesn’t understand a word!”
The other colorist, a gregarious young man with a man bun and goatee who had joked about my hair being green, came over to explain, in English, that this was “the process” for henna. “It will oxidize and get darker over a few days.” If I wasn’t happy, I could come back, and they would try to fix it.
Everyone kept repeating “C’est normal” and “Ne vous inquiétez pas” (don’t worry). It reminded me of how parents talked to a kid who had just split their lip at the playground. You’re fine; everything will be okay.
Over the next few days, I examined my hair obsessively and considered wearing a hat for the rest of the trip. I felt bad for a day and then got over it. As promised, the color got darker and now I kind of like it. But more than that, I’m glad I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and had a chance to peek into the world of mid-life French ladies at the salon.
Magnifique!! Proud of you - I understand the nervousness when it comes to hair!
Tres courageux! Tes cheveux sont superbes! :) (oops... spotted my typo... and Sacha, this is Liz ;-))