A few weeks after our wedding, we moved to Africa where I was posted for 3 years. A good life for newlyweds in love.
As is often the case in these countries, French expatriates lived among themselves and often organized their activities on their own premises.
During one of these first evenings, I had the opportunity to chat with Patrice, one of my bosses. Handsome, in his forties, he's a charmer, a smooth talker and a divorcee. But sometimes rather crude and authoritarian. All young executives like me admire him.
While my wife was having a drink at the bar, I told her about our new life as a couple. In the course of our discussion, I tell him that one of the things that attracts me to my love is his hair and his haircut, which I adore. He replies: "I prefer women with short, boyish hair. That androgynous look turns me on, especially when they suck.
Two days after that evening, I left for my first professional trip out of the capital.
When I returned a week later, I found my wife with short hair. It suits her, but we'd never talked about it before, especially as she knew my fondness for her original hairstyle.
She never told me about this decision (except: it's too hot, it's better!) but I still had a big doubt, a doubt reinforced by the fact that she kept this boyish cut (and sometimes even a little shorter) for months, right up until Patrice's return to France. And then, as luck would have it, she let her hair grow back.
She recently confessed to me of a detail from that evening that had slipped my mind. Patrice had invited most of the wives of the young leaders who had just arrived in the country for a few dances. In fact, my wife had danced three or four slow dances with him while I chatted in the bar with a few colleagues. She came back with a funny expression on her face.
As they danced, my love described to Patrice the good fortune and happiness of living and working in such a country, when we were newlyweds.
Hugging her a little tighter, Patrice told her this:
"Jacques is not favored by management at the moment. They criticize some of his actions. There's even talk of sending him back to France. I can help him first of all to get out of this bad situation and then to make a good career in the company. But for that, I need something in return, and from you. The rule is simple: next weekend is the cocktail party for the visit of our big boss from Paris. If you come with short hair, it means you accept. If you don't, it'll be what it's supposed to be: a quick trip back to a siding in the Paris suburbs."
It was some time later that I had this discussion with Patrice about tomboy haircuts. She also remarked that, if you remember the time, there were four of us young wives who had just arrived to get our hair cut.
As is often the case in these countries, French expatriates lived among themselves and often organized their activities on their own premises.
During one of these first evenings, I had the opportunity to chat with Patrice, one of my bosses. Handsome, in his forties, he's a charmer, a smooth talker and a divorcee. But sometimes rather crude and authoritarian. All young executives like me admire him.
While my wife was having a drink at the bar, I told her about our new life as a couple. In the course of our discussion, I tell him that one of the things that attracts me to my love is his hair and his haircut, which I adore. He replies: "I prefer women with short, boyish hair. That androgynous look turns me on, especially when they suck.
Two days after that evening, I left for my first professional trip out of the capital.
When I returned a week later, I found my wife with short hair. It suits her, but we'd never talked about it before, especially as she knew my fondness for her original hairstyle.
She never told me about this decision (except: it's too hot, it's better!) but I still had a big doubt, a doubt reinforced by the fact that she kept this boyish cut (and sometimes even a little shorter) for months, right up until Patrice's return to France. And then, as luck would have it, she let her hair grow back.
She recently confessed to me of a detail from that evening that had slipped my mind. Patrice had invited most of the wives of the young leaders who had just arrived in the country for a few dances. In fact, my wife had danced three or four slow dances with him while I chatted in the bar with a few colleagues. She came back with a funny expression on her face.
As they danced, my love described to Patrice the good fortune and happiness of living and working in such a country, when we were newlyweds.
Hugging her a little tighter, Patrice told her this:
"Jacques is not favored by management at the moment. They criticize some of his actions. There's even talk of sending him back to France. I can help him first of all to get out of this bad situation and then to make a good career in the company. But for that, I need something in return, and from you. The rule is simple: next weekend is the cocktail party for the visit of our big boss from Paris. If you come with short hair, it means you accept. If you don't, it'll be what it's supposed to be: a quick trip back to a siding in the Paris suburbs."
It was some time later that I had this discussion with Patrice about tomboy haircuts. She also remarked that, if you remember the time, there were four of us young wives who had just arrived to get our hair cut.
