Boudin

Yesterday, I went to the hairdressers in an attempt to sort out wedding hair.


This is a Big Deal. I do not like hairdressers. For some reason, "just sort my hair out, please" never seems to be a specific enough instruction, and I- who have few fixed ideas about my hair, just not a short fringe, please, I put up with that for quite long enough- end up having to describe in detail what I want doing.


Wedding hair being One Of Those Things That Needs Sorting Out, I went on a mission to find a hairdresser in Lyon yesterday (with Ze Boy's sister for moral support). The first place we visited didn't have time on the date in question, so that was out. The second was very overpriced and the name was slightly odd- Saint Algue (Holy Seaweed? Holy Algae? Saint Seaweed? Strange, however you translate it). In the third, the woman was very rude to us, and accused us of wasting her time because we refused to book an appointment to discuss the possibility of booking an appointment for a test for the real wedding-hair thingy. Yes, it was THAT complicated. And she was THAT rude. I quote: "mais là, je perds mon temps pour rien, vous m'avez vraiment dérangé, et vous ne prennez même pas de rendez-vous, enfin, c'est pas possible, quoi..."


One word: POUFIASSE. (There is no satisfactory English word in this case. Sorry).


The fourth place was fine. I went in, made an appointment for a test-chignon the same afternoon. I came out with hair crunchier than deep-fried seaweed (look! More seaweed! Maybe if I save it we can make sushi?), but it was ok. The hair is now sorted.


To make my hair do what she wanted, the hairdresser put a boudin in it.


Let's see what GoogleTranslate makes of that, shall we?


la coiffeuse a mise un boudin dans mes cheveux   gives:    


(wait for it...)


The vanity put a sausage in my hair.


It seems my job is safe for now.