Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
On my one-week anniversary, I decided to treat myself, so when the bakery shut for lunch, I grabbed my coat and headed straight for the hairdressers.
It was a short walk from the cobbled Rue de Paris to the very modern and trendy Rue de Solferino.
I felt a little less intimidated by my unfamiliar surroundings and found myself admiring the smart shopfronts and their stylish patrons.
However, as I walked into the salon, I was again transported to another era.
The decor was a retro nod to the fifties, with the entire salon painted with bright, ice-cream pastels of pink, peach and cream.
To the right was a nail bar with stools that looked for all the world like they had been stolen from an American diner.
The rest of the salon was similarly kitted out with white leather styling chairs and pink-framed mirrors.
I half expected them to set my hair in rollers with a polka-dot scarf round my head.
A glamorous woman with a peroxide blonde bouffant, which would not have looked out of place on Marilyn Monroe, approached me with red talons and made me retreat.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle,’ she welcomed me in a sing-song voice, red lips grinning. ‘Une coupe, les couleurs ou le brushing?’
‘Bonjour, I um … I’m not sure,’ I hesitated, pleased that for once someone had spotted I wasn’t married and didn’t assume that at my age I should be.
‘Ah, vous êtes une Anglaise? Pas de problème – ma fille parle un peu anglais,’ she explained, followed by a banshee wail of ‘Nicole! Viens ici.’
I smiled politely and took the seat she pointed to. In her best English she manufactured the words ‘Juste one moment pleese,’ with the most adorable accent I had ever heard.
Nicole’s entrance caused my jaw to drop – I had never seen anything like her.
Her curves had been poured into a black-and-white polka-dot dress and she wore a red scarf tied neatly around her neck.
Her hair was jet black and styled in a simple ponytail with a quiff at the front. The words Betty and Boop came to mind.
‘Hello, my name is Nicole,’ she said, stretching her hand out.
I fumbled to look less starstruck by her and failed miserably.
‘I just love your look,’ I said sincerely.
‘And I’m Irish by the way. My name is Edith, but please call me Edie because everyone pronounces my name in a way that makes it sound like “edit” or “eejit” and I can’t bear either.
’ I realised I was babbling, but Nicole just smiled.
‘I don’t think you want to do that,’ she grinned, ‘with the accent on the E, people will start to call you “Eddie”!’
We both laughed and for the first time since boarding the plane, I felt as though I could let my guard down.
‘How long ’ave you been in France?’ she asked as she deftly lifted my hair and placed a gown around my shoulders. A coffee also appeared in front of me, and I caught her mother winking at me in the mirror as she went back to her other client.
‘A whole week,’ I sighed, the strain evident in my voice.
‘Hmm, and already you are changing your ’airstyle? This can only mean one thing, a man,’ she pouted.
‘No, no man. I just, I needed a change, you know?’ I didn’t want to get into all the complicated reasons I had for coming here with little or no plan, but something in her eyes made it clear she understood. ‘Your English is so good by the way, you even have a bit of a London accent,’ I said.
‘Oh, thank you, yes, I made my Erasmus in London. It is where I met my husband, Johnny.’ She smiled instinctively. ‘I was doing business, he studied history and now we have our little Maximilien,’ she said, pointing to a photograph peeking out from behind the mirror of a toddler.
‘He’s so cute,’ I said, and I meant it, for his dark blond hair had also been styled into a quiff and he sported nothing but a nappy.
‘Thank you, he’s nearly three years old now,’ she said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘My God, time really goes so fast, non?’
I nodded in agreement. ‘That’s why I came to France to work in a bakery, carpe diem!’
‘Ah, don’t tell me, you are the new replacement for Maria at the boulangerie on Rue de Paris?’
‘Guilty.’
‘Well then, we are going to take very special care of you,’ she said, placing her hands on my shoulders.
‘What happened to Maria?’ I asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.
‘I’m not really sure. One day she was here, the next day, hop! Gone.’
I gulped hard. ‘Hardly surprising, if she’d received the same warm welcome from Madame Moreau that I had.’
Nicole smiled warmly. ‘Madame Moreau, she appears tough, but there is softness there. The years have made her that way,’ she explained.
I decided to reserve judgement.
‘Now, the hair, what would you like today, Mademoiselle?’ Nicole slipped into professional mode and ran her fingers through my tresses, which felt divine.
‘Well, I was thinking of cutting it all off, actually, and going for the gamine look,’ I announced courageously.
‘Aye-aye-aye, everyone who comes to France wants this gamine, girly-girl look, hein? Non, is not for you, ma belle,’ she replied.
I was taken aback by her candour; most hairdressers at home would just go along with whatever you said but proceed to do the opposite – they would never challenge you.
‘Well, something drastic has to happen,’ I said, taking a quick sip of my coffee.
Taking a leaf out of her book, I decided to say exactly what I thought, rather than be my usual overly polite self.
‘I want the kind of hair a man wants to play with!’ As soon as I said it, I couldn’t help but laugh and thankfully, so did Nicole.
But there was no disagreement this time, as she walked me to the sink and set about changing my personality from the head down.
* * *
When I arrived back at the bakery for the afternoon shift, Madame Moreau hardly glanced my way and if she did notice my new hairstyle, she said nothing.
Nicole and I had settled on a layered bob just above my collarbone with a sweeping fringe that grazed my eyelashes when it fell from behind my ears.
I felt like a new person, and as I passed by shop windows on my way back, I hardly recognised myself.
I looked younger, more vibrant and inexplicably flirtatious.
As far as I could see, I was becoming ‘French’!
I even ducked into a pharmacy across the street and bought fire-engine-red lipstick.
Nicole was a breath of fresh air and, to my great delight, invited me to my first soirée at a jazz club to see her husband Johnny playing bass in a gypsy jazz band.
It was marvellous how, in the blink of an eye, everything had begun to change and look a lot rosier.
I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had invited me out on a Saturday night back home.
Perhaps this whole idea wasn’t harebrained after all.
Monsieur Legrand approached the counter and with a newfound confidence I greeted him by guessing his order.
‘Une tarte au citron?’
‘Justement, Mademoiselle édith,’ he said, putting his hat on the counter. ‘You are acclimating well, I see?’ he said, nodding at my new hairstyle.
‘Pas mal,’ I agreed, placing the tarte into a small box. ‘If it wasn’t for all the paperwork.’
He gave me a questioning look.
‘Carte de séjour,’ I said.
‘Ah yes, we do enjoy our protocols here. If ever you need my services,’ he said, handing me his card.
‘Merci, Monsieur Legrand,’ I said, taking it and slipping it into my apron pocket. ‘You’ll be my one phone call from prison.’
‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that,’ he smiled.
‘Deux chocolats chauds et deux tranches de flan, édeet, tout de suite,’ Madame Moreau croaked, making it clear that chit-chat had a time limit. So I tucked my sexy hair behind my ears and set about being the best serveuse in Compiègne.