Chignon

She remembers that first moment, when she saw that blonde halo of hair travelling through the playground. The chignon was constructed in a free-flowing but complex manner and she fell in love there and then at the age of fourteen.

Interestingly enough, there were not blue eyes in the face, but hazel ones, which twinkled with a sense of humour. A slightly tilted nose made her look younger and she had small, but lovely rose mouth.

She aspired to be fifteen, so the mysterious French lady would become her form teacher. She waited impatiently for a whole year and then came that glorious first day of September. The trepidation, the reshuffling of papers on her desk, as she waited for that first French less of the year to start and the object of her infatuation to make her entrance.

Did she fall in love all over again? Yes, she did. It was a pure love, for at the time, she could hardly surmise that two women might love one another in any other way than the one she experienced.

She craved a look, a word, a compliment, a note in purple ink on her "devoirs". She waited impatiently for lessons to finish and French lessons to start. She loathed the school holidays where they were separated. One day, she deliberately delayed the packing of her schoolbag, only to be surprised as her "Lily" struck up a conversation with her. She received the key to the French library. Soon she was devouring the books under her expert guidance. From La Chartreuse de Parme, to Madame Bovary, from Le Rouge et le Noir to Dangerous Liaisons. Once she finished Madame de Merteuil's rise and fall in society, she determined that she too would conquer. Little could she have guessed...