Bonding at the Salon de Coiffure

It is custom in some American families for the womenfolk to accompany the bride to the Beauty Parlor on the day of her wedding. I missed out on this particular ritual when my older son, Tarik, got married last spring in a beautiful ceremony on a hilltop farm in the Virginian Blue Ridge Mountains. A few months later, however, I got a second chance.

Tarik decided (after some urging from his dad) that he wanted to celebrate his marriage again, this time in the house where he grew up, in typical Moroccan style – under a Caidal tent in our star- (and projector-) lit garden, among the bougainvillea, palm trees, and gossamer sculptures, our backyard transformed into an “Arabian Nights” fairyland.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Before we can present Tarik’s bride, Emma, in her mother-of-pearl inlaid, cedar throne and parade her around the guests for the first time, we must transform her into the foreign princess.

It is 5 pm (Moroccan time) and the caterer has just arrived. The guests won’t appear for another five hours or so even though the invitation is for eight (Moroccan time, remember). Still, I am already starting to lose it. The waiters bearing Taos platters laden with dates, cookies and enticing hors d’oeuvres are trying to squeeze their way into my kitchen, despite the fact we have cleared and cleaned the garage for this purpose. Not to worry. Emma, the ever-smiling, calm princess bride takes me by the arm and whisks me out of the caterer’s way.

“Time to go to the hairdresser,” she announces.

A few minutes later, Tarik drops us at the “Salon de Coiffure” and tells us to give him a call when we’re done. Emma’s mom has stayed behind, supposedly to rest up for the long evening ahead. (Moroccan weddings are known to last until dawn.) But, I wonder if she hasn’t graciously allotted this quality time for her daughter and me, the only chance we’ll have the entire day to be alone.

It’s a Friday evening in August and a holiday weekend, so we have the entire place to ourselves. The Salon has a bohemian, living room air, with cushioned sofas and paisley tapestries arrayed in nonchalant fashion. I note the hairdresser chairs look more appropriate for dining and suddenly feel a twinge of panic. Perhaps I should have taken Emma to the tonier Jackie-Dee’s after all. But, Michelle, French Coiffeuse par excellence, comes highly recommended by a dear friend and so we plop ourselves down in the pouffy chairs. (Besides we’d never get an appointment anywhere else at this late hour). It is Emma’s turn to frown as she warily eyes the young attendant who is rifling through a basket full of tresses and hair extensions of various lengths and colors, then holding them next to Emma’s head.

“Hopefully, she won’t choose the pink or blue ones,” Emma whispers. “Maybe we could skip the extensions altogether?”

I laugh and that is what we decide to do. The manicurist sets to work on Emma’s nails, admiring the lovely henna designs on her hands from last night’s party. The delicate orange florals contrast beautifully with her pale skin. The girl tut tuts as she chooses a clear varnish, shoving the beige one Emma’s brought back in her purse. No time for a pedicure, but no matter. Emma’s feet are already decorated with henna and will barely be visible under the many elegant kaftans she’ll be changing into.

When Emma’s nails are dry, we discover that her manicurist, Latifa, will also be her esthetician. After receiving instructions from Michelle not to make Emma too white (“We are not going for the Geisha look”), Latifa escorts us downstairs where Emma is made to recline on a chaise that actually looks suited for its purpose. More tut-tutting from Latifa, this time directed at me. Apparently I am a bad mother-in-law for not bringing Emma in a few days prior for a full facial treatment. As a result, Latifa tells me, she has discovered a “bouton.” (Even with my glasses, I cannot see the alleged blemish.) I translate for Emma and, despite the tactless reference to a bride’s worst nightmare, we laugh.

“Maybe if she’d use the hypoallergenic stuff we brought…,” Emma suggests in vain.

Latifa discards all the make-up we’ve brought and selects only chic French names from her shelf. While Emma goes from “blanche” to “plus blanche,” I snap some photos and continue to translate the barbed, muttered comments which boil down to, “No facial. Bad mother-in-law.”

Back upstairs, Michelle sets to work on Emma’s hair. Her chin-length cut presents a challenge for the upswept, Cinderella look Michelle has in mind, but she’s undaunted and literally swept away by Emma’s wheat colored locks and azure eyes. With a few rollers, the curling iron and an inordinate amount of hairspray, the upsweep holds, except for the few romantic tendrils left gracing her face. (Later at the wedding, the women will “ooh” and “ah” at her hairdo and marvel at how the coiffeuse has matched the extensions perfectly to her hair color. Emma will smile, point to her hair and say, “No, no, moi,” and to her not-quite-Geisha-white face and say, “Pas moi.” Several of the guests, unaware that Emma is American, will ask if the bride is from Fes.)

I admire “les resultats” while we wait for Tarik to pick us up. We both look anxiously for his reaction and are relieved at his shy smile. He does remark tentatively on the amount of make-up, but his smile says it all. No translation necessary.

The wedding itself goes by as in a dream and does indeed last until dawn. A few days later, we receive the photo proofs and gather together to view them. Whenever hair or make-up is mentioned, Emma and I share meaningful smiles over everyone’s heads. Each family member has his or her favorite tale from that unforgettable night. For me, though, it will always be the trip to the salon when Emma was transformed from my son’s lovely wife into my cherished daughter.