The Collected Stories of Colette by Colette Page A

each other . . . I wanted curly bangs on my forehead; so, so I cut a few hairs—big deal! I know you always go further than you want with scissors . . . And I burned my cheek trying to turn the curling iron, to cool it down, like the hairdresser, you know: it makes it so pretty . . .”
    “. . . ?”
    “The cut, that was the scissors. A little farther and I would have poked out my eye . . . So, here I am, right, with my hand covered with blood, my hair singed and cut like a staircase, my cheek burned . . . And naturally, right when Mama comes back! Boy, did I ever catch it!”
    “. . . !”
    “Yes, I was in the wrong, but she scolded me in a way that wasn’t the way she usually does. I’m sure it wasn’t a question of what’s appropriate, or of dress, or of children who get into everything and are punished for it! It wasn’t even a question of me—or barely!’
    “. . . ?”
    “Wait, I’m about to remember . . . She was like a fury. She said that I had ruined her daughter for her! She said, ‘What have you done with my beautiful hair which I tended so patiently? You had no right to touch it! And that cheek, who gave you permission to spoil it! And this little hand? . . . How? . . . I’ve taken years, I’ve spent my days and my nights trembling over this masterpiece and all it takes is one of your exploits, you destructive little demon, to ruin the adorable result of so many pains! What you’ve done to it is cowardly, it’s shameful! Your beauty is mine, you don’t have the right to take away what I entrust to you!’ What do you think of that, Godmother?”
    “. . .”
    “Me either, I couldn’t think of anything to say. But it shook me up. I went under the stairs without saying a word. And I felt as sorry for myself as I could. I felt my hands, my legs, my head. ‘Poor little things,’ I said to myself, ‘your hands, your legs, your head aren’t even yours! You’re like a slave, then! A lot of good it did for your mother to give you birth, since she’s taken back all the rest! You wouldn’t dare even lose a single baby tooth or break a nail, for fear that your mother will claim it back from you . . . ‘ Well, you know how you talk to yourself when you want to make yourself cry . . . Oh, I have a mother who torments me so much, Godmother!”
    “. . .”
    “You think I do the same to her! It’s possible. So, if she’s nice to me at dinner, I can forgive her, too?”
    “. . .”
    “I really want to. It’s true, she did call me a destructive demon, but . . .”
    “. . . ?”
    “But she also called me an ‘adorable result,’ and I like that.”

A Hairdresser

    “Here, Madame, in the little salon at the back, we won’t be bothered. Shampoo?”
    “. . .”
    “Naturally, I know the refrain: not enough time, just a rinse! And then afterward, they complain about having dry, split hair. I’ll bet you’re going to the preview at the Gymnase? I was sure of it! Did you like the one at the Ambigu?”
    “. . .”
    “It wasn’t what I was expecting. Nothing really new, nothing audacious, no ‘discovery.’ Not one entrance which makes you cry out.”
    “. . . ?”
    “Yes, cry out . . . ‘There’s one, at last!’”
    “. . . ?”
    “Well, a coiffure, naturally! There, like everywhere else, it was a mishmash, a mishmash of attempts; yes, that’s the expression I was looking for! You saw the fright wigs, the sugar loaf, spit curls, the eternal turban, the sac à mouches made out of tulle wrapping the head . . . Watch your eyes, the fumes . . . Next time I’ll give you a nice raw-egg shampoo.”
    “. . . ?”
    “Is it good? It’s excellent . . . for the egg sellers. Hah, hah!”
    “. . . !”
    “Sorry, the comb got stuck. You have dandruff.”
    “. . . !”
    “No, I made a mistake. Don’t pay any attention; it’s just that we’ve reached the point where I always say that . . . to my regular