I was lying in the sun on an unusually hot Sunday morning, the first bikini of the season on my pasty white skin, reading a 20,000 words essay by Karl Ove Knausgaard (a soliloquy of minute and personal details and mindless observations that, surprisingly, kept me glued to the page in the same way one can’t look away from roadkill) when I noticed I stank. I had forgotten to put on deodorant after showering earlier in the day.
Max has known me for 15 years. We know about each other ups and downs, relationship problems, the details of the birth of his daughter – the way a certain intimacy happens with the person who has been cutting your hair and has seen your face age in the mirror at regular intervals. I let Max do whatever he wants. I don’t know what I want when it comes to hair and I trust his French instincts and his expertise can “see” me better than I can.
French women and their style pop up at regular intervals in the US press, blogosphere and publishing industry. Books and articles on French women’s tips on how to dress, stay thin, groom and have sex, periodically hit the market. I am not quite sure American women are that fascinated with their French counterparts but, then again, I might be wrong.