Since there weren't endless possibilities one could do with already short hair, Carole started asking questions that I interpreted as..."do you want a shampoo?", "which way do you comb your hair?", "do you only want a cut?", "how much do you want taken off?". Or, at least those were the questions that I was answering. I think I told her I wanted it real short, except leave some length on the neck. She started snipping at a lightning pace, but somehow we always seemed to agree on what was happening. When she was done, she handed me a mirror to check the back. I wanted a little more taken off, and started to tell her when she interjected something that sounded like "on poo PLOOSE?" It took me awhile, but I realized it's that southern twang. It's enough to undo everything (no matter how minute) I've already learned.
When I was leaving Coiffure Mixte, Carole offered me a Carte de Fidelite which entitles me to a free cut after 10 more. I didn't have the heart to tell her it just might not happen. But I did promise Doug that I would arrange a rendez-vous for him on Samedi if possible for a haircut. In French, the word for husband is mari and the word for Mayor is maire. I couldn't remember that subtle distinction of pronunciation, so it would be entirely possible that I could make a rendez-vous for Henri (our communist Mayor) instead. Heading into this sentence I understood my dilemma, so I chose instead the word for spouse (le epoux), except I may have stated it in the feminine gender (la epouse). I say this because later in the conversation Carole wanted to confirm whether the appointment for my spouse was for a fil or garcon.
Not only coiffure mixte, but mot mixte. Oh well, at least I've got my Carte de Fidelite!
