The Most Beautiful Book in the World by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Page B

reception they inflicted upon me. Priestesses draped in white robes bombarded me with questions about my health, my eating habits, the sports I practiced, and the history of my hair, in order to establish my “capillary appraisal.” After that, they left me for ten minutes on some Indian cushions with an herbal tea that smelled of cow manure, then finally they introduced me to David, who announced triumphantly that he would be taking care of me, as if he were inducting me into a sect now that I’d successfully passed some exam. The worst of it was that I felt obliged to thank him.
    We went upstairs, where a superb salon with pure, simple lines had been arranged in a style that said, “Watch out, I’ve been inspired by the millennial wisdom of India.” At that point an army of barefooted vestal virgins offered to take care of me: manicure, pedicure, massage.
    David studied me carefully, while I observed the way his shirt opened onto his hairy chest, and I wondered if this were a requirement in order to become a hairdresser. Then he declared: “I’m going to shorten your hair, make the color slightly darker at the roots, then flatten it against your scalp on the right hand side and enhance the volume on the left. Totally asymmetrical. You need something like this. Otherwise your face, which is very regular, will end up in prison. We need to liberate your fantasy. We need air, quickly, air! Something unexpected.”
    I smiled in response, but if I’d had the courage to be honest, I’d have got up and left right then and there. I hate people who have perfect aim, anyone who gets anywhere near my secret, to the point where they might come close to detecting it. But this time I reasoned that it would be better to overlook such comments, and make the most of this Figaro so that he’d give me the sort of look that would help me conceal my secret all the better.
    â€œWhat an adventure,” I exclaimed, to encourage him.
    â€œWould you like us to do your hands at the same time?”
    â€œYes, that would be nice.”
    And that is when fate played its hand. He called out to a certain Nathalie, who was putting beauty products away on the shelves. No sooner did Nathalie lay eyes on me than she dropped the jars she had in her hands.
    The crash of shattering glass destroyed the pervasive serenity of the scalp sanctuary. Nathalie blurted an apology and fell to her knees to begin sweeping up the mess.
    â€œI didn’t know I had such an effect on her,” joked David, to make light of the incident.
    I nodded, although there was no fooling me: I had been all too aware of how Nathalie panicked, as if it were a blast of wind on my cheek. It was the sight of me that had frightened her. Why? I didn’t get the impression that I knew her—I’m a fairly good physiognomist—but I cast about in my memories all the same.
    When she was back on her feet David said, in a gentle voice tense with irritation: “Right, Nathalie, Madame and I are waiting for you.”
    She went pale, and wrung her hands.
    â€œI . . . I don’t feel well, David.”
    David left my side for a few minutes and went into the changingroom with her. A few seconds later he came back, followed by another employee.
    â€œShakira will take care of you.”
    â€œIs Nathalie ill?”
    â€œWomen’s trouble, I imagine,” he said, with a scorn addressed to all women and their incomprehensible moods.
    When he realized he had allowed a whiff of his misogyny to escape, he took hold of himself and subsequently filled his conversation with charm.
    When I left the Atelier Capillaire, I had to admit that Stacy had been right: David was an absolute genius with color and scissors. I lingered next to every shop window where I could see my reflection, and gazed at a lovely, smiling stranger, whom I found very pleasing.
    It took Samuel’s breath away when he saw me walk into the living