The third sex
A casual remark in the hairdresser's today reminded me. The gorgeous, springy barnet that I grew (I wish I knew how because I would bottle the formula and sell it) during pregnancy had wilted beyond recognition, and I decided that it was time to have it all cut off again.
I don't go to the finest establishment in town, and the hairdresser (hand tremor, mossy breath) took a full six minutes to undo 18 months of nurturing. Mid-attack, she asked me if I would like my hair 'griffé' (feathered) at the back. I replied yes, and to that she said, almost to herself, 'pour quand même garder un peu de femininité'.
Hmmm. 'Quand meme'. Was I being paranoid, or was her comment roughly translatable as 'We're fighting against the odds, but let's try and send you out of here looking more or less feminine.'
You see, in this country, I have often been mistaken for a man. I am taller than the average French man, with short hair, and am welded to my jeans and denim jacket. I sometimes forget to apply mascara. At first I found the 'third sex' encounters, usually in shops, hilarious. 'Merci Monsieur, euh, pardon, Mademoiselle. Excusez-moi!' Then, after about the sixth occasion, I began to feel like a freak. Plus, now I am finally starting to look my age (blame sleepless nights), there's a good chance the next occasion will be 'Merci Monsieur, euh, pardon, Madame. Excusez-moi!' Not quite as funny.
Anyway, I used this thoughtless remark as fuel for a rare retail binge, during which I bought my first ever poncy lady jacket, the sort, according to Glamour magazine, one can wear both to weddings and with jeans.
I am 31-year-old mother of two after all. I will throw out my last remaining hooded top tomorrow. But no Frenchy will ever make me throw out my denim jacket.
I don't go to the finest establishment in town, and the hairdresser (hand tremor, mossy breath) took a full six minutes to undo 18 months of nurturing. Mid-attack, she asked me if I would like my hair 'griffé' (feathered) at the back. I replied yes, and to that she said, almost to herself, 'pour quand même garder un peu de femininité'.
Hmmm. 'Quand meme'. Was I being paranoid, or was her comment roughly translatable as 'We're fighting against the odds, but let's try and send you out of here looking more or less feminine.'
You see, in this country, I have often been mistaken for a man. I am taller than the average French man, with short hair, and am welded to my jeans and denim jacket. I sometimes forget to apply mascara. At first I found the 'third sex' encounters, usually in shops, hilarious. 'Merci Monsieur, euh, pardon, Mademoiselle. Excusez-moi!' Then, after about the sixth occasion, I began to feel like a freak. Plus, now I am finally starting to look my age (blame sleepless nights), there's a good chance the next occasion will be 'Merci Monsieur, euh, pardon, Madame. Excusez-moi!' Not quite as funny.
Anyway, I used this thoughtless remark as fuel for a rare retail binge, during which I bought my first ever poncy lady jacket, the sort, according to Glamour magazine, one can wear both to weddings and with jeans.
I am 31-year-old mother of two after all. I will throw out my last remaining hooded top tomorrow. But no Frenchy will ever make me throw out my denim jacket.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 1:02 PM
1 Comments:
I can't believe my first comment was an AD!
Sheesh!
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