Going for the snip

Although the Malteaser may frustrate me sometimes I don't actually want to go as far as to emasculate him. This title refers to nothing more sinister than the hair on my head.

I've not always had good experiences with hairdressers. In particular, my irregular visit chez le coiffeur en France nearly always resulted in an irregular haircut. Other anglos suffered similar problems, with one friend coming out with what could only be described as a loaf of bread on her head. After four years in France I had finally found a good stylist. And then I left the country. Two months on, I fear that my locks are now in dire need of a trim.

The Malteaser succumbed to his shagginess (still talking about the hair!) a few weeks ago. In the week before I was supposed to be on a reckie for a suitable place. The place I found was full on Saturday morning so we went cruising the mean streets in search of a Frizerie. Having been turned away from two places we eventually happened upon a third which would later become known as "the most Communist hairdressers in the city". Inside, four women in white tabards worked at their own stations. Each station had its own sink, although curiously, none of the patrons had their hair washed. Instead, upon taking their seat, the patrons had their heads past over with a wad of gauze (the same gauze that had been used for any prior customers) moistened with the stagnant water sitting in the sink. The women then took their scissors in hand and made ferocious movements with them, making it look like the scissors had a life of their own. Any hair cutting was merely a by product of the hand being taken closer to the head. Still, the Malteaser came away sufficiently defuzzed and was spared the alcohol treatment (this is apparently where spirit alcohol is wiped over your neck to calm the redness after a close shave). The whole process was surprisingly easy – no appointments, no complicated explanations and no extortionate bill at the end. I think the Malteaser paid five lei (about £1) for the pleasure

When I was in France I thought I could explain most things in everyday life but at the hairdressers I came unstuck. My requests for a fringe generally met with a prolonged attack on my hairline by a barber's razor which inevitably left me with several weeks of tufty mini- antlers protruding from my forehead. I tried in vain to explain that I needed to cover up my cowlick at the front leaving flummoxed coiffeuses asking "Mais qu'est-ce que c'est une lèche de vache?"

I wasn't even safe with just a trim. I once asked a French hairdresser to cut my fringe (which had been cut in previously by a nice hairdresser back home). The one good thing to be said was that nightmarish process was over in less than a minute. She lifted my fringe up so that it was at 180° with my forehead and then took two huge stabs at it with the scissors. This effectively left two fringes, a shorter one overlying the longer. She then sprayed on a vat of Elnette so that the top fringe stuck up in the air and the bottom to my face. The money was whisked out of my hand and I was out again on the pavement before I knew what had hit me. I ran home to wash my hair and I cut my fringe with nail scissors until I next went back to the UK.

I studied French for 10years and still couldn't get my point across about how I wanted my tresses styled. What hope do I have in Romania? Please take part in the vote to help me decide what to do!