A qualified success

The last time that I visited my coiffeur— let’s call him M. Ciseaux—I was not in search of un nouveau re-looking so much as a further iteration of my Frunch ‘airdoo, which helps me to blend in around these parts. M. Ciseaux begged to differ. Almost as soon as I crossed the threshold, his lip had begun to curl in distaste. Self-consciously, I slunk across the floor and settled myself in front of the mirror. He lifted up tufts of my hair, looking at them with such undisguised horror that I began to question whether perhaps I had acquired some poux, or had only dreamed that I had taken a shower the night before. After a dramatic pause, during which I wished to evaporate, he asked, mais qui, QUI, a fait cette espèce de coupe ?

Busted! Or, as they say here, prise la main dans le sac. It is perfectly true that, just two months previously, in seeking out household economies I had decided to try out one of my two local coiffeurs, both of whom are cheaper M. Ciseaux. The result was not delightful, but neither was it upsetting, and though I had decided that perhaps I might not go back, I had got through eight weeks without giving the matter much more thought. Now that M. Ciseaux had a sharp implement next to my head, however, the matter assumed a greater importance.

It took but a minute for me to confess to my crime. Doubtless my disloyalty stung a bit, but M. Ciseaux seemed far more concerned by two other issues. Firstly, there was the question of how I had managed to survive eight weeks in un tel état catastrophique (answer: just fine, although now I was beginning to worry that I had been walking around looking like Worzel Gummidge). Secondly, it was utterly incompréhensible to him how anyone could possibly have got their diplôme if they went round cutting hair in such an incompétent manner.

At this point I compounded my original error by remarking blithely that there were diplômes and diplômes, and that not everyone could be as doué as M. Ciseaux. I have heard tell that flattery gets you everywhere. Well, not chez le coiffeur, as it turns out. A diplôme, you see, is a diplôme is a diplôme is a diplôme. It is the État Français, no less, which awards professional qualifications, and one would very much doubt that the Président of the République, follicly-challenged though he may be, would dish out hairdressing qualifications to any old sheep-shearer who showed up.

When I made my flippant remark, I had temporarily forgotten that all who wish to succeed at French life must defer to, and live within, a cadre. It all begins when French children rentrent dans le cadre at school, and progresses through coche-ing administrative cases, to its apotheosis which comes with the attainment of a profession: the ultimate cadre, which, whether you are a surgeon, a charpentier, or a leader of men, requires you to be diplômé d’État in a highly specific and prescribed manner.

It is easy enough to forget this overriding need for a specific diplôme for whatever job you do when you are a blundering étrangère. In the UK it remains true that a music degree from a good university can see you through a successful career managing domestic water supply, being a diplomat, or marketing bleach. Here in France your music degree will earn you the right to be… drum roll please… a music teacher. Oh, only if first you sit a number of ferocious academic exams, for without a CRPE, trusting you near even a single pupil would be pure madness. With a CRPE, whether or not you have any aptitude for teaching (about this the CPRE s’en fiche), you are qualified to teach them in their droves. It’s all in the piece of papier, you see.

Me, having blown up lots of balloons, for which I am not qualified, sporting a haircut from someone who was qualified to provide it.

… which all explains why, each time I tell my French friends that I have taken on a new work project, their eyebrows shoot skywards. I freelance for two different media organisations here, having worked only in the public sector in the UK. For me it is a chance to use existing skills in a new context, and to acquire different ones, and I relish my good fortune in having been afforded the opportunity to do so. For some of my French friends my switching trades like this is nothing less than systemic vandalism.

That said, however gung ho about my lack of relevant diplôme I may be, after my latest appointment with M. Ciseaux, I can tell you that I will never, ever, try my hand at being a coiffeuse.

 

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