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After Work: The Buzz In Corsica

…Since my French is far from fluent, I think I asked her where the mayor could get his horse struck or alternately where my mother could get her goat cheese cut. Anyway puzzled amusement ensued…

Finding out where one can get a haircut in Corsica can present problems, as Dona Gibbs reveals in this hilarious column.

My husband decided to get a hair cut. While getting a haircut is usually a standard masculine grooming chore, it’s unusual for Marty to attend to this mundane piece of business without a lot of wifely prodding. Nagging, he calls it.

What made it more unusual was that he decided to embark on this haircutting adventure in Corsica.

“I’ve noticed that all the really athletic guys have shaved heads,” he said running a hand through what passed for dark brown locks, fingering those spare but brave strands still hanging in there.

“O.K., “ I thought,” I’ll support him in this decision. After all it will grow back in case Marty doesn’t achieve that World Cup look he’s probably going for.”

While Marty was at the newsagent, I went up the street to the drugstore for more sun block. The boiled tourist look isn’t all that flattering. And Marty was now going to need some for his head.

While I was there I asked the pharmacist where my husband could achieve his new look.

Since my French is far from fluent, I think I asked her where the mayor could get his horse struck or alternately where my mother could get her goat cheese cut. Anyway puzzled amusement ensued.

I was in an ever-growing line and others offered their suggestions as to what I might want. The druggist showed me potions for thinning hair. Then with an “Aha” look produced a bottle for head lice.

I mimed snipping my own hair and a satisfied ohhh went down the line with everyone eager to tell me to walk just around the harbor.

Off we set. Yes, we. I was going to watch Marty get a haircut. That might tell you that five days in this small port village is three days too much. We’d discovered the best place for gelato, eaten in a majority of the restaurants and taken the obligatory boat trip to see “caves, cliffs and rocky inlets.”

The haircut place was unisex. We had to wait while a tiny ancient lady got her weekly pin curl and a portly gent had his “little bit off the sides.”

When Marty explained what he wanted, the beautician cum barber was first incredulous and then amused when I told her it was okay. Actually I probably once again said something about the mayor’s horse.

“Say goodbye to my hair, “ Marty murmured.

Actually I’ve been saying goodbye for years and years now.

The first buzz of the clippers, then the next and then the next.

The barber lost her nerve. Was monsieur sure?

Yes, he was and on she went.

Little bits and pieces littered the floor.

“Should I collect them and put them in a locket?” I wondered.

“More, more,” Marty gestured.

Timidly, the barber buzzed on, glancing at me now and then.

Then she stood back. Finished.

I rushed to the chair, hugged Marty and said, “My husband is handsome.”

That needed no translation.

So my advice to travelers: When you have exhausted the guidebooks, get a haircut.

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