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French women have such a reputation for being chic that I always thought it best not to try and compete. I've never felt the urge to cover my face with an impasto of beige foundation, the way most Parisiennes do. But it's true that, after a certain age, a girl needs to pay attention to her grooming, so I've been frequenting beauty parlours a little more regularly than I did when I lived in London.
My nearest is an all-pink sanctum run by a ferociously chic little madame in a turban. When I presented myself, she gave me a ruthlessly efficient manicure and hand massage, and then, after deciding unilaterally that my eyebrows needed shaping, talked me into letting her shape them.
But when, examining my face under the Klieg-strength lamp, she proposed removing my moustache as well, I decided enough was enough.
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Until you have been given a foot massage by a Vietnamienne, you have never lived.
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I later asked my ex-copain if he'd ever noticed a moustache and was reassured when he replied, rather wistfully, that he wished he had, since it would have provided him with another excuse to tease me.
But the next time I fancied a manicure I gave Madame Turban a miss and ventured to a parlour on rue St Sabin in the 11th arrondissement called L'Ongle Minute, run by a couple of young Vietnamese women. Since their hand massages make Madame's seem prosaic, it's a move I have never regretted.
Last week, with belated signs of springtime in the air, I asked for a pedicure as well. Believe me, until you have been given a foot massage by a Vietnamienne, you have never lived. My only problem was having to maintain a decorous expression while she was at it. 
FIRST POSTED MAY 4, 2006
 Last week: the French reach for the Gitanes again |
