Hair Story

This was the summer of my nineteenth year and my first venture to Europe. Liege, Belgium was my first stop. My college roommate Michele, was born in Belgium and a close family friend, her “Tante Berte”,  was kind enough to let us stay at her tiny apartment . Lacking bathing facilities, she recommended her hair salon so that we could wash our long, “jolie” locks. We prided ourselves on being free spirited hippies, hence not a curler or hairspray had touched our virgin hair. (well perhaps an ironing session or two ) And so, it was a matter of vital importance that we learn the french phrase for, “ no teasing”. According to Tante Berte, it was, “no crepage”. .

I can still picture that Salon de Beaute. There I sat, plastic caped, continuously muttering, “No crepage, s'ils vous plait, Madame.” “No crepage”, I uttered while she set my very long hair on miniscule rollers. “No crepage”, I begged, as I viewed my very tight curls. Then, out came the metal comb and I cringed as each little ringlet was backcombed to a height I could never have imagined. My eyes were shut as I heard the hiss of hairspray. She may have been going for a Bridgette Bardot coif but the rest of me missed the mark. I ventured a peek over at Michele. Her “do” was an Audrey Hepburn french twist multiplied by 100. I don't know who would have won the height contest, as Michele's extended nearly two feet above her petite frame. I, on the other hand, sported two feet wings from each ear. When I reached to touch it, it felt like a motorcycle helmut.

As we retreated from this place of torture, I glimpsed at our reflections in a shop window. In retrospect, Michele's style was a forerunner to the “ Marge Simpson”, and mine an exaggerated, 'Georgie Girl”. Right now, I can still see us rushing down the street to hide our embarrassment. It took us ages to comb out all the knots and wash out all the hair gunk in the kitchen sink; all accompanied by fits of laughter. I don't know why this memory stayed with me all these years. There was something about that summer ; the feeling that anything was possible. Ahead of us was Paris and my first real love , but that's another Chapter...