For women only

"Now you'll have to find some French boy to do your hair," commented my Indianapolis hairdresser not a little vindictively as the departure date for my move to Paris approached. (He had already let me know how jealous he was of the fact I was going to live in France.) I know, I replied, meekly. Already I was dreading the thought of finding someone new. I know it's a trivial concern, in the overall scheme of things. But I'm sure most of you can relate to the trauma of entrusting your beloved--or not--head of hair to an Unknown Hairdresser. Regardless, whether or not we like our hair has no small influence on how we feel for the day. And a "bad hair day" is no joke.

This is especially true for me. Although I wear little to no makeup, and don't really know my way around an eyeliner pencil, I care quite a bit about my hair. Alright, I care a lot. Part of the reason is that I have very thick, coarse hair that has a mind of its own, and depending on how it's cut, it can either look fabulous or absolutely awful. The other part of the reason is that I have the sort of features which are really transformed by my hair. With a good haircut, I can look attractive. With the wrong haircut, I can look absolutely dismal--like I'm recovering from a serious illness or haven't slept in 3 days.

As much as I care about my haircut, I don't like to spend much time on my hair. I mastered (if that's what you want to call my uncoordinated efforts) the blowdryer only sometime in the late 80's. I haven't ever used a curling iron,or otherwise fussed with my hair, except to try to buy quality shampoos. This amounts to another reason why a good cut is especially important to me.

To be sure, I had my old hairdresser cut my hair just before I left the country, in order to put off as long as possible the dreaded search and transition. Finding someone new is hard enough in a place with which you're familiar, but when you're uprooted to an entirely different country and have to communicate how you want your hair cut in a foreign language, it's even more intimidating.

Since my old hairdresser had been to Paris more than once, I asked his advice before leaving. Go to X, he advised. It's a big salon, they know what they're doing, you can't go wrong.

But I did. I mean, I went, and it went wrong. Salon X is located on the luxury shopping street, the rue de Faubourg-St-Honoré. That was the first problem. Like many newcomers to Paris, I didn't notice that key word, Faubourg, which means something like suburb, or "beyond city limits." All the streets in Paris that continue beyond what were the ancient boundaries of Paris in--I don't know--1500 and something, have "faubourg" inserted into their name at the point where they pass that almost prehistoric limit. Even more confusing, the numbering of buildings (which could be the topic of a whole other postcard), starts all over again at zero.

The net result was that, having emerged at the appropriate metro station, I was marching purposefully to my destination when all at once the numbers, instead of advancing, suddenly seemed to decrease. I spent half an hour in total confusion, walking ever faster and literally working up a sweat, thinking of how now I--who am almost never late--was going to be late to my appointment at this fancy Parisian hair salon.

I did finally arrive, where I was courteously and warmly ushered into what I now realize from subsequent experience was a very luxurious salon, and introduced to my randomly selected hairdresser. I'll call him Alex. Alex was a big, muscly guy, and I watched with intense interest as he coiffed the client before me, an elegant woman in her 50's with silver hair. I thought he did quite a nice job, and so I started to relax.

Then it was my turn. Qu'est-ce qu'on va faire de beau aujourd'hui? asked Alex merrily. (What beautiful thing is one going to do, literally.) It took many failed salon visits before I figured out that this was a question to dread.

In my (I thought) not too shabby French, I explained to him that it had been 7 weeks since I'd had my hair cut, and that I wanted to let my hair grow. The cut I'd had (medium-short hair that was layered but not excessively and that allowed my hair to wave in its natural thick way), was good, but I was wanting to change my look. Thus I only wanted him to restore some form, cutting as little as possible. During the next hour I watched helplessly as half my head of hair fell to the floor. I emerged looking rather too severe, I thought. Not very feminine. I ran my fingers through my hair--or what was left of it. No sensuality whatever--and very little hair--remained.

Believe it or not, I returned to Alex once more, believing that perhaps I just hadn't explained myself clearly. This time, since I had less hair to start with, I emerged looking even more razorish than before. Okay, I decided. I don't want to look like a waif or a boy. I've got to find someone new, and hopefully, a lot less expensive.

I thought I would do what most French people seem to do when looking for information: they turn to a guidebook. Here there are guides on every imaginable topic: restaurants (multitudes of those), shopping, romantic spots, where to walk your dog... The French seem to swear by the uprightness and reliability of the Guide System. My companion Denis is a perfect example. The first thing he does when we decide we're going to go somewhere is buy not one--but several--guides on the region. These he studies industriously while in bed at the end of his long, hard days, while I obliviously read a novel. Needless to say, we have an entire wall of bookshelves devoted to guides.

"So," I asked Denis, after relating my failed hair experiences to date, "what guide do you suggest I consult?" "Le Petit Futé," he replied. This is a fat, encyclopedic guide to just about all categories of commerce and entertainment in Paris. He advised me to try a small salon. I poured over the hair salon pages. Finally, I chose the most interesting sounding salon and made an appointment.

My chosen salon was in a rather nowhere part ofthe 15th arrondissement. I walked by it several times before I even noticed it. I peered in, then walked up and down the sidewalk several more times trying to decide whether I should even go into the place. How could such a dinky, rather dingy-looking salon ever have been listed in a guide?

Unfortunately, my sense of propriety got the better of me. I had made the appointment; I had better keep it. After all, I reminded myself, this is France. Maybe interesting things can happen to your hair in little holes such as this.

When I emerged from the shoebox of a place, my bangs were cut to approximately three-quarters of an inch long. The overall effect was that of a fluffy dog with his eyebrows trimmed so it could see. Horrible. It's only hair, I tried to comfort myself. It will grow.

That night I ranted unfairly at Denis. "How could such a dump be in the almighty Le Petit Futé?" I queried, stupidly close to tears. "I'm sure it's a racket. That place must have paid to be in a guide."

I waited for the disaster to grow into a longer disaster. When it did, with paranoia and trepidation, I took up another guide. This time, I chose a small salon in the Marais, a very beautiful and happening quartier just west of the Bastille. This time the salon wasn't just dingy, it was downright dirty. The fact that I didn't just turn around and walk out is testament to my social timidity, especially in Paris at that time. But I was terrified to let the obviously mediocre and inexperienced stylist-- who was constantly receiving directives from the salon owner--even touch a pair of scissors to my head. The woman who was getting her hair cut just before me emerged looking frightful--her hair all jagged little points, and she in her fifties. I fulfilled the requirements of the appointment by having a temporary color applied to my hair. At least no more longterm damage was done.

I resumed my search. I found an appealing little guide called Moi in a small bookstore. It was dedicated to all the "best" destinations for appeasement of feminine vanity--not only coiffeurs, but epilation salons (hugely popular, as French women don't believe in shaving), massage centers, hair treatment centers, etc. The title of the book, however, embarrassed me as egotistical and vanity-fraught, and I hid it from view in my office so Denis wouldn't see it.

Thumbing through it, I decided I'd had it with cheap, low-life salons. I was once more ready to shell out some francs at a more high-end place. I just needed, I felt, to find one more independent and creative than Salon X where I'd started out.

I chose a small but highly recommended salon headed by a Japanese master who had trained under some of the best coiffeurs in Paris. The place was on the Left Bank, in the fashionable but hip 6th arrondissement, a neighborhood where--since it was the one where I stayed the first several times I visited Paris--I felt comfortable.

The welcome was warm and less pretentious than Salon X. Already I felt better. I was introduced to my stylist, Pascal, and then led upstairs by a sweet and buxom young colorist who did a very nice job, it turned out, of coloring my hair. I started to relax. This was going to turn out well. I descended to Pascal's chair.

Qu'est-ce qu'on va faire de beau aujourd'hui? he queried as his eyes met mine in the mirror. I told myself that curl in his lip was not at all disdainful. I proceeded to explain. I was tired of this cut, variations of which I'd had for years. I wanted to let my hair grow. Thus all I required of him was to shape it up the tiniest bit, to restore some form while I let it grow out. He cut it more than I had wanted, especially removing much of my hair's natural thickness, but I decided to give myself some time to decide whether this sleekness was a good look for me or not.

I returned several more times. I noticed that when Pascal would greet me, he would look me up and down to check out my look. To say the least, I didn't find it too sincere a greeting. Every time I returned, I reiterated that I wanted to let my hair grow, and with every visit I emerged with less hair than before. Finally in July he cut my hair with a razor, leaving it around an inch long and shorter in some places, and me looking like a wispy waif--just the look on most fashion models at the moment, I was starting to realize. But not my look. And definitely not the look of someone who had stated emphatically that she wanted to let her hair grow.

I decided to change salons. This time I went to a branch of one of the big Paris salons. I was assigned to a very gentle and nice girl hairdresser. I was so desperate at this point to at the very least restore my hair to its former glory that I printed out the 'About Us' page from this website where I have my good old American haircut. I showed her the picture. "Oh, I understand completely," she affirmed, as I explained my tale of past woes and ever-increasing hair depradations. "That look is much more you." She did a good job of equilibrating what was left of my hair.

On my next appointment, I was excited. My hair had grown quite a bit, and we were just about to leave on Christmas vacation. Finally I was going to look decent again. But the hairdresser began by asking the Dread Question (Qu'est-ce qu'on va faire...?). Well, I replied, do you remember the photo I brought you the last time? "Oh, perfectly," she answered, and proceeded to give me the worst haircut to date, layering it so severely that some parts were cut literally at the roots. I left in furious silence, never to return. When I looked at myself in the mirror at home, I resembled a partly plucked chicken. My hair had been thinned to the point where I looked downright ugly. Even Denis agreed it wasn't too good. Great, I thought, feeling on the verge of tears, just when we're leaving on vacation and I had wanted to look my best.

I let my hair grow as long as I could. When it was so shapeless I could no longer stand it, I returned to the Moi guide in a sort of stupor of dread. I noticed a listing I hadn't before, for a coiffeur who took a maximum of two clients at a time in a quiet serene room. He was expensive. I called, and left a message on his answering machine.

When he called me back, his voice was so genuinely nice that I immediately felt calmer and trusting. He asked me about my hair and I told him I'd had a number of bad experiences and would explain when I saw him. We set an appointment for the next day. I should mention that I don't know how they manage it, but in just about any Paris salon you can get an appointment almost immediately.

He was located near the Tuileries in a tiny, pleasantly quiet street I'd never noticed before, which branched off the bustling rue St-Honoré where I'd begun my ill-fated quest. I almost walked right by the salon, since the name is above eye-level and you don't notice it from the narrow sidewalk. The only thing giving any indication that this was a salon was the list of prices for services which is required by French law. This is usually painted on the salon window on large letters if the prices are cheap. And the windows are usually huge, so passersby can see what a happening salon (hopefully) it is. And so you can be seen by all the world with color goop smeared all over your head and your hair standing up like a punk rocker's. In this case, the price list was in discrete small print on a single page next to the door, and the windows were frosted, so you couldn't see in. You had to ring to be admitted.

Alain Bernard himself opened the door, and taking my hand and making direct eye contact, he warmly welcomed me in. His salon is a single spacious room, sparely decorated with a few well-chosen pieces of contemporary art. There is no babble of voices, only some very quiet classical music in the background. The focal point is a fountain in an alcove, which trickles quietly and is surrounded with orchids, ferns, and swathed with wild clematis vine. Needless to say, I liked that.

On that visit, M Bernard was working entirely alone (sometimes he has an assistant present). There are only two client chairs placed before large mirrors. The overall sensation was one of serenity and quietude. M Bernard, whose eyes didn't leave mine for a minute in order to glance me up and down to check out my look in the manner of Pascal, asked me about my hair. I related my tale of woe. He examined my hair minutely. Finally he agreed it had been handled catastrophically (Hah! it wasn't my imagination!), pointing out that some of it had been layered right down to the roots, and that it's very nature had been destroyed. (Exactly! I rejoiced.) There's not much to do today, he said, other than to help your hair return to its nature.

After treating and coloring my hair, M Bernard snipped off just the tiniest bit. But somehow, what he did already transformed the disaster into a head of hair I could at least feel comfortable with. I no longer cringed when I caught my reflection in the mirror. What's more, M Bernard was a joy to be around. Our conversation was honest and interesting, not the sort of endless chitchat one often feels forced to keep up in a hair salon. He calmly performed all the tasks involved in his work by himself, an approach I found soothinly authentic. He had a sincere and gentle, nearly Zen air that, together with his consummate skill, rendered me simply happier by the time the visit was over. His concentration is so complete during the cutting that he prefers not to speak until it is finished.

I just had my second appointment with M Bernard, after letting my hair grow as long as I could. I was not disappointed. On the contrary, the moment he laid his hand on my head, I already felt better. This time, I had enough hair on my head for him to exercise some of his consummate skill in cutting. Although I'm still a long way off from my goal of a longer, changed look, I left with a cut that was totally me, natural and going with the flow of my headstrong hair, emphasizing its nature instead of obliterating it. As M Bernard summed up my experience, "Those hairdressers understood neither the nature of your hair nor your own, Madame."

M Bernard, on the other hand, intuitively does. And I have found my hairdresser, a true créateur who strives to express the individuality and personality of each client. And his spirituality is such that I leave his salon filled with an enormous sense of peace and well-being. This is bien-être in the best sense of the word.

If you come to Paris and would like a truly incomparable haircare experience (I won't say "salon" because discreet M Bernard emphatically says he is not a "salon"), visit Alain Bernard, 38, rue de la Sourdière, 1er arrondissement, 75001 Paris, Metro Tuileries. From the US call 011 331 42 60 61 50. From Paris, call the last 8 digits preceeded simply by(01). Also, look at his very nice website at http://www.alain-bernard.biz.

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