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Authors: Ellen Sussman
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way.”
“Let’s make love really slowly. Let’s make love so it lasts for hours and hours.”
“It does,” Simon said. “It lasts for days. It lasts for all the time that I’m not with you.”
Josie moved into his arms.
“A haircut,” Josie says, pushing herself up off the lounge chair. “Off with her hair!”
“You feel better?” Nico asks, eyeing her warily.
“I do.” She puts her hands on her back and stretches, arching her back. She can feel the sun on her face. “Where shall we go?”
Nico stands and leads them to the exit of the Rodin Museum.
“There are lots of shops on rue Saint-Dominique. We’ll find something there.”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Does your language school have rules about this sort of thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“How to spend your day with a client. Is my wish your command?”
“It’s not usually so complicated. Most students are happy to learn the names of vegetables at the market.”
“Have you ever fallen in love with a student?”
Nico smiles. “Before today?”
“You’re not in love. You’re a wonderful flirt, though. You can put that on your résumé.”
“Isn’t it possible that it’s love?”
“What about your French tutor? Aren’t you in love with her?”
“She has Philippe. I was just a diversion.”
“But you love her. You could love her.”
“I could love you.”
“No. It’s just a foolish question. I drank too much wine. Let’s find a hair stylist. I can’t go to Provence looking like a teenager.”
Josie’s hair is long and straight. She carries a clip in her purse, and when she’s warm she twists her hair and pins it to the top of her head. When she lets it down it falls to the middle of her back, a horse’s mane of deep chestnut that swings as she walks. She has never cut her hair more than a few inches.
They walk across the esplanade des Invalides and Nico reaches up and runs his fingers through her hair. She looks at him, surprised. It’s as intimate a touch as she’s felt in weeks. It stirs her and then angers her. She doesn’t want to remember.
“It’s a nuisance,” she says, tossing her head and stepping away from his hand. “I’m done with all that.”
“A shame,” Nico says.
“Voilà,” Josie calls after they’ve turned onto rue Saint-Dominique. She points across the street. “Perfect.” It’s a small salon, with a sign in the window that promises a shampooing et coupe for twenty-five euros. “On y va.”
Nico follows her. Josie has taken charge of the tour now—Nico follows a half step behind. She pushes open the door of the salon, which is all bright lights and gleaming chrome surfaces with techno music pounding, and greets the young woman at the desk. The woman’s hair is chartreuse and spiky. Maybe this isn’t the place to get a grown-up haircut after all.
“I’d like a cut,” Josie tells the woman in French. “I don’t have an appointment.”
“I can do it,” the young woman says, and Josie wonders for a brief moment if she’s really a stylist or if everyone’s out to lunch and the assistant wants to make some extra money on the side.
But soon enough Josie is draped in a robe, her hair is washed and combed, and she’s staring at herself in the mirror. She sees Nico standing behind her. The stylist asks what she wants and the music pounds in Josie’s ears.
“I want to look older and wiser,” Josie says. “I want to look like someone with a job and a boyfriend and a house in the country.”
“Non,” the woman says. “C’est pas possible.”
Josie looks at Nico as if she needs a translation. He shrugs. The woman starts cutting.
“Wait,” Josie says. “What are you going to do?”
“I will make you look like a movie star.”
“I don’t want to look like a movie star.”
All the while the woman’s fingers move at the speed of light and the click-click-click of the scissors reverberates in Josie’s ears. Hair drops to the floor in
“Let’s make love really slowly. Let’s make love so it lasts for hours and hours.”
“It does,” Simon said. “It lasts for days. It lasts for all the time that I’m not with you.”
Josie moved into his arms.
“A haircut,” Josie says, pushing herself up off the lounge chair. “Off with her hair!”
“You feel better?” Nico asks, eyeing her warily.
“I do.” She puts her hands on her back and stretches, arching her back. She can feel the sun on her face. “Where shall we go?”
Nico stands and leads them to the exit of the Rodin Museum.
“There are lots of shops on rue Saint-Dominique. We’ll find something there.”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Does your language school have rules about this sort of thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“How to spend your day with a client. Is my wish your command?”
“It’s not usually so complicated. Most students are happy to learn the names of vegetables at the market.”
“Have you ever fallen in love with a student?”
Nico smiles. “Before today?”
“You’re not in love. You’re a wonderful flirt, though. You can put that on your résumé.”
“Isn’t it possible that it’s love?”
“What about your French tutor? Aren’t you in love with her?”
“She has Philippe. I was just a diversion.”
“But you love her. You could love her.”
“I could love you.”
“No. It’s just a foolish question. I drank too much wine. Let’s find a hair stylist. I can’t go to Provence looking like a teenager.”
Josie’s hair is long and straight. She carries a clip in her purse, and when she’s warm she twists her hair and pins it to the top of her head. When she lets it down it falls to the middle of her back, a horse’s mane of deep chestnut that swings as she walks. She has never cut her hair more than a few inches.
They walk across the esplanade des Invalides and Nico reaches up and runs his fingers through her hair. She looks at him, surprised. It’s as intimate a touch as she’s felt in weeks. It stirs her and then angers her. She doesn’t want to remember.
“It’s a nuisance,” she says, tossing her head and stepping away from his hand. “I’m done with all that.”
“A shame,” Nico says.
“Voilà,” Josie calls after they’ve turned onto rue Saint-Dominique. She points across the street. “Perfect.” It’s a small salon, with a sign in the window that promises a shampooing et coupe for twenty-five euros. “On y va.”
Nico follows her. Josie has taken charge of the tour now—Nico follows a half step behind. She pushes open the door of the salon, which is all bright lights and gleaming chrome surfaces with techno music pounding, and greets the young woman at the desk. The woman’s hair is chartreuse and spiky. Maybe this isn’t the place to get a grown-up haircut after all.
“I’d like a cut,” Josie tells the woman in French. “I don’t have an appointment.”
“I can do it,” the young woman says, and Josie wonders for a brief moment if she’s really a stylist or if everyone’s out to lunch and the assistant wants to make some extra money on the side.
But soon enough Josie is draped in a robe, her hair is washed and combed, and she’s staring at herself in the mirror. She sees Nico standing behind her. The stylist asks what she wants and the music pounds in Josie’s ears.
“I want to look older and wiser,” Josie says. “I want to look like someone with a job and a boyfriend and a house in the country.”
“Non,” the woman says. “C’est pas possible.”
Josie looks at Nico as if she needs a translation. He shrugs. The woman starts cutting.
“Wait,” Josie says. “What are you going to do?”
“I will make you look like a movie star.”
“I don’t want to look like a movie star.”
All the while the woman’s fingers move at the speed of light and the click-click-click of the scissors reverberates in Josie’s ears. Hair drops to the floor in
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