coupe de cheveux

Before I came to Quebec, I had heard that the Quebecois were very proud of their French heritage. And I had heard about the referendum for Quebec's independence that failed by only half a percentage point. But I guess I had thought that the whole "French" thing was something that the Quebecois did on the side. Like wearing a kilt, perhaps: you might do it every once in a while in order to "celebrate your heritage," but it's certainly not the sort of thing you'd do all the time. Maybe the Quebecois made a big deal out of their French-ness in public; but in the privacy of their homes, I was sure, they all spoke English.

So it came as kind of a shock when I realized that there were many people in Quebec who spoke French not only as their first language, but as their only language. A few of Lise and Carroll's children were in an English-immersion program at school, but most were not. Lise was fluent in English, but Carroll spoke it only haltingly. And their friends who came over regularly knew almost no English.

So it is possible to live your entire life in Quebec (in the countryside, at least) without knowing English. It's difficult to wrap your head around the fact that the people of Canada cannot all talk to each other -- not just as the temporary result of immigration, but as the permanent, accepted condition. And yet I suppose that the maintenance of Quebec's unique identity depends to some extent on some of its citizens not being able to speak English. If everyone here could speak English as well as they spoke French, then why speak French at all?

On the federal level, English and French share official language status, so food packages in Canada are all bilingual. Sometimes the label designers seek to economize by combining the French and English labels into one, taking advantage of the English language's tendency to put adjectives before nouns and the French language's tendency to do the opposite. Hence such redundant labels as "Tomato Ketchup aux Tomates." Bombarded by this constant bilingualism, I'm surprised the Canadians don't all develop split personality disorder.

But Quebec does not equivocate; there is only one official language in the province, and it is French. At first, the stubborn refusal of the French Canadians to accomodate English speakers may seem absurd -- don't they know what continent they're on, and what century they're living in? -- but once you see things from the perspective of the Quebecois, it doesn't seem so silly. French America used to stretch in a wide arc from Nova Scotia to New Orleans, but since the early 18th century, the French language and culture has been under continual assault by the spread of the dominant English-speaking population. There may still be some Cajun communities down south and some Acadians in the Maritime provinces, but Quebec is the last, purest stronghold of French language and culture remaining in North America.

In Quebec City, it is true, practically everyone seems to speak at least enough English to communicate with the tourists. Quebec may be a French island that must be defended against the ever-encroaching sea of English that surrounds it; but that sea is also the source of a lot of its tourism, so Quebec does its best to be accomodating. Most of the museums, for example, have displays in both English and French, and most waiters can take your order in English. I've been able to get by without learning any French beyond "Je voudrais..." and "Un billette, sil vous plait."

But on the fringes of Quebec City, outside of "Vieux Quebec" -- a UNESCO World Heritage site, the only fortified city in the Western Hemisphere north of Mexico -- the tourist effect starts to wear off. So it was that I found myself in a chair in a barber shop about to have my hair cut by a woman who didn't speak English.

I really needed a haircut. My last one was in June or July, and my hair was getting long enough in the back that it was starting to take on the proportions of a mullet. I was going to try to get a haircut when I was in Vancouver a couple of weeks ago, but I ran out of time; then, I hoped I would find a barber shop near the farm in Gaspesie, but I wasn't on the farm long enough to find out. By the time I got to Quebec City, the situation was desperate. But it proved surprising difficult to find a barber shop in Quebec. I encountered many "salons" on my walks through the city, but where were the plain old regular barber shops? I was looking for something with a red-and-white striped pole outside, but I couldn't find it.

The internet was not much help, either. On Monday, I went across the St. Lawrence River to the town of Levis, where Google Maps told me there was a barber shop (this was not the sole purpose of my visit; the view from the ferry was spectacular). I found the red-and-white pole, but alas, it was "ferme" on Mondays. I went back to the internet and found a smattering of barber shops around Avenue Cartier. It was kind of far from the Old City, but if I walked to the art museum, then perhaps I could walk back along that route. There was also a Western Union branch located nearby, where my parents had arranged to wire me some money when they found out my attempts at getting cash from an ATM had failed. It seemed worth a try.

I found that elusive red-and-white pole, and, more importantly, the shop behind it was open. I went inside and asked, "Parlez-vous Anglais?" The woman said, "Non." I had given some thought to what I would do in this situation -- a few days ago, I had tried to memorize some essential hair-cutting vocabulary -- but it all escaped me at that moment and I considered running out. But I sat down, and as she started trimming, I thought, "Well, this should be an interesting haircut."

There was a man in the barber shop who did speak a little English, and through him I managed to communicate that I wanted it "not too short." It turned out pretty well, actually. I'd post some pictures of the haircut, but I'm sure you'd rather see pictures of Quebec. I know how much you all like UNESCO World Heritage sites.

... And I packed the USB cable deep in one of my suitcases. It'll have to wait till later.