The eyes of a professional

Whenever my dad entered a new building, he checked out the plaster work. Was the ceiling smooth and even? Corners too? No trowel marks? He was a plasterer himself and couldn’t help critiquing another’s skill. We all do that. Our eyes are trained by our work and that’s how we look at the world. I’m always looking at signs and mentally correcting bad lettering or spacing. “That O is too close to the F.” “Gee, what a crummy R.” …Things like that. Today at Vezelay, a ring of pinecones encircled the base of a stone pillar. Surprisingly, a few at the end had never been finished. I wanted to run out to my car and grab my chisels. It’s gratifying to be able to look at somebody’s work and know (well, let’s be honest) we could’ve done it better. Untested, but gratifying.

Whenever I take my big, snarly, frizzy hair in for a trim, the hairdresser looks at me with those eyes. She’s a craftsman. She despairs at the clumsy efforts of her collegues. She knows she can do it better. Today I took the hair into Auxerre with Claire. We were strolling along, munching croissant (as you do) when I saw “HAIRCOIF” in a mall-ette off the main shopping street. Oh, I did need a trim – but with a French hairdresser? Luckily, she knew a bit of english. Come to find out, she’s was going to London for holiday in October. Hooray. A lovely girl with orangish hair, she had a bit of English but not a lot. Her not-a-lot was more than my bit-o-French. Yet, she began cutting with confident scissors and knew exactly what to do. She was an artist. I would be her masterwork. She combed and snipped. Stood back. Evaluated. Corrected. Then she solemnly said to me, “We need the big brush.”

Twenty minutes later I emerged from the hairdresser with bangs and perfectly straight hair. I didn’t know myself when I saw my reflection in the shop windows. I never had straight hair in my life. Bangs don’t work for me. When Joost saw me, he said, “Bonjour Natalie”

Of course, the minute my hair gets wet, it’ll revert to form. Those bangs will look like singed pinfeathers on a chicken. (Rezac family similie) and the curls will return. But mercifully, this hairdresser can remain satisfied with her handiwork and will never know. She’ll never see the critical eyes of the next hairdresser or hear her say, “Do you cut your own hair”