My name is Claire, I’m 45. A full-time employee Monday to Friday, a wife and a full-time mom, my life is a marathon with no finish line. Boredom? I’ve never met it.
Today is Saturday. Officially a day off, and yet, at 10am, I have an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Not for me (let’s be realistic) but for my 3 kids, like every school holiday, when their haircuts start looking more like manga characters than civilized young people, and their eyesight gets blocked by a greasy mop of hair.
With my husband working weekends, the day runs like clockwork.
At 7:30am, I drag Arthur, 6, out of his sleep, and while he eats his cereal I power through the online grocery order, juggling deals and fridge stock levels. A quick wash, a mandatory stop at a parcel locker to pick up a package, a strategic stop at the bakery, then the corner shop for whatever I forgot. Back home, I hope to find Emma, 13, up and dressed, before welcoming the eldest, Léo, 15, back from his boarding school at a vocational high school.
Going to a hair salon, that den which should honestly be classified as a risk zone, isn’t the most pleasant thing. Going with 3 kids — one going through heartbreak, another going through a teenage phase complete with silent rebellion — is an Olympic feat.
It’s 9:30am, everyone’s in the car. Well, except doudou. Arthur screams and I turn back to grab the sacred stuffed animal without which nothing is possible, and “off we go!”
Like every Saturday morning downtown, the streets are jammed with traffic. No parking spots to be found, honking horns, stressed drivers — despite all my efforts not to be late, I’ll certainly be late.
On foot, the expedition isn’t much more pleasant since it’s raining and there’s still one more trial ahead: the parking meter. “1 hour? 2 hours? Maybe 3?… 4 hours to be safe?”
We finally step through the salon door — or should I say, into a parallel universe — where the buzzing of hairdryers, the smell of hairspray, and overlapping conversations blend together, and where everyone seems too busy to notice us.
– “Excuse me!… Hello, I booked for 3 kids’ haircuts.”
– “Hello ma’am, that’ll be 2 kids’ cuts and one men’s cut, since the eldest is over 14.”
A forgotten detail. Léo has officially crossed over to the dark side — adult pricing.
Léo heads straight to the shampoo station while Arthur, Emma and I wait on the famous faux-leather chairs. It’s already 11am. Emma is called up next and asks me to make absolutely sure they know it’s “just a trim, okay!” — as if my ability to relay that instruction determined the fate of her entire social life.
Arthur, meanwhile, starts fidgeting. Impatience shows in his every move.
Then, in a panicked whisper, “Mommy, I need to pee!” he tells me in my ear. I try to sneak off with him discreetly to the back of the salon where the bathroom is, which has been occupied for over 10 minutes.
And finally, it’s his turn. I try to motivate him with some ingenuity: “Keep your head nice and straight, like a superhero who has to stay still on a secret mission.”
The salon manager warns me that a young apprentice will be taking care of him, that he’s patient with kids. I cross my fingers.
12:00pm, Léo reappears with his new haircut and Emma comes out of the shampoo-and-treatment station, while I flip through a magazine and start to find the time really dragging.
And I suddenly realize that Arthur, still in the chair, has abnormally short hair. Very short. I forgot to give instructions, distracted by my trip out of the salon to feed the parking meter.
The apprentice explains that he was moving too much to cut with scissors, so he used the clippers. Goodbye golden curls, hello military cut.
1:30pm, mission accomplished! 3 kids, freshly groomed. I ask the traditional question, “So, do you like it?” with the optimism of a mother who already knows she’ll only get the truth once outside.
At the till, I’m offered a hair treatment for Emma’s “too dry” hair. I’m too polite (or too tired) to refuse, and my wallet gets 30 euros lighter.
We finally head home. My phone rings a few moments later — the grocery delivery driver is at the house, and has been waiting for 15 minutes.
In short… I took my kids to the hairdresser’s.
