coiffeur

My lovely hairdresser asked me if I could so a hairdressing-related word for her. So this one’s for you, Alexia.

A coiffeur is a fancy word for a professional hairdresser, particularly one who specialises in styling hair. It’s a French word that specifically refers to a male hairdresser (obviously). The female version, ‘coiffeuse’, appeared later, although that distinction has pretty much gone these days and we use ‘coiffeur’ for everyone. (Just once I’d love it if we started using the female version of something for everyone, but I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.)

Coiffeur’s roots (pardon the pun) go back to the French verb ‘coiffer’, which meant ‘to cover or dress the hair’. This verb comes from the Old French word ‘coife’ which referred to a headdress or cap worn in the Middle Ages (that comes from the Late Latin – AKA, Latin used roughly between the 3rd and 6th centuries – ‘cofia’, meaning a helmet or a head covering). A coife was a close-fitting hat that covered the top, sides and back of the head, and was often made from linen or another soft fabric. It was tied under the chin, keeping it secure. But definitely not very cool, judging by that description.

Over time, the meaning of ‘coiffer’ evolved and by the 17th century, it had come to describe the act of styling or arranging hair. And that’s where we got ‘coiffeur’ from.

During the reign of Louis XIV (the Sun King) in France, coiffeurs were highly regarded as artists, and were often employed by the aristocracy to craft elaborate wigs and hairstyles. A coiffeur’s work wasn’t just about cutting hair – it was about creating a statement. One of the most famous was Claude de Rambouillet, known professionally as ‘Monsieur Champagne’ (best name ever), who was known for creating elaborate baroque hairstyles at the French court, incorporating ribbons, jewels and feathers.

Bonus hairdressing word: tonsorial. In Holt in Norfolk, there’s a barbershop called ‘The Tonsorial Artist’. (it has an excellent sign) That comes from comes from the Latin word ‘tonsor’, meaning ‘a clipper’ or ‘a shearer’, and ‘tondere’, meaning ‘to shear’ or ‘to clip’. Head to their website to find out the origin of the barbers’ pole, which, as it turns out, is gross.

marionette

It’s World Puppetry Day today, which is organised by the Union Internationale de la Marionnette (UNIMA). So that’s why I’ve chosen ‘marionette’ as this week’s WOTW (as no one calls it).

A marionette is a puppet controlled from above using wires or strings (so other types of puppets like ventriloquists’ dummies or Sooty aren’t marionettes – except in France, where it refers to any type of puppet). As you can probably guess from the spelling, the word ‘marionette’ comes from French. For some reason we lost an ‘n’ when it came into English, as the OG French term was ‘marionnette’. That comes from an Old French word, ‘marion’, which means ‘little Mary’. This is likely because the earliest marionettes were used to depict biblical events, in which the Virgin Mary was a big star.

How much is that scary puppet in the window?

Puppetry has been around for bloody ages, and some historians claim they actually predate actors in the theatre. In fact, there’s evidence of string operated puppets as far back as 2000 BC in Egypt. But who cares about that when we can talk about HAUNTED PUPPETS?

In 2015 paranormal investigator Jayne Harris filmed a supposedly haunted puppet every night for three months using a timed night vision camera. She was called in after its previous owner, who inherited it from his late father, claimed it tried to CHOKE HIM TO DEATH in the middle of the night. You can read more and see the (slightly underwhelming) video footage in this article.

If that doesn’t convince you, what about Mr Fritz, a disembodied ventriloquist doll’s head, which was caught on camera BLINKING in the middle of the night. Mr Fritz was made by a prisoner at the World War II Stalag II-B concentration camp. His new owner noticed that the door to the case the head was stored in kept opening over night, so he set up a camera to see what was going on. You can see the footage of the blinks in this article (my apologies that it’s from the Daily Mail). HIS LIPS BLOODY MOVE TOO.

Sleep well tonight…

cretin

Before we get into this, it goes without saying that ‘cretin’ is a horrible word used to describe someone who’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic (which also isn’t a very nice phrase, sorry). So I’m definitely not encouraging you to say it to anyone. But it does have an interesting backstory, which is why it’s the word of the week. Which for this week, I’m renaming the problematic word of the week.

So, what’s that interesting backstory? Well, ‘cretin’ comes from ‘cretinism’, is a form of severe congenital hypothyroidism which means babies with the condition have a deficiency of thyroid hormones when they’re in the womb (thyroid hormones are crucial for proper physical and mental development), often caused by a lack of iodine – in fact, these days the condition is known as congenital iodine deficiency syndrome. Cretinism typically stunts these people’s physical and intellectual growth, as well giving them various other health issues. (That’s not the interesting bit, that’s just depressing.)

Cretinism was particularly prevalent in the French Alps due to several factors, one of which was a lack of iodine-rich foods – and that’s where the name came from. Its origins lie in the French word ‘chrétien’, which actually means ‘Christian’. They called it this as a reminder that, despite their mental and physical issues, people suffering from this condition were still humans, and should be treated with dignity and respect. Aw.

I should probably just end this here, but in reality, that’s only a theory as to the etymology of ‘cretin’. The other, not so kind, ones are:

• it describes these people’s ‘Christ-like’ inability to sin because they can’t recognise the difference between right and wrong

• it’s from ‘creta’, Latin for chalk, because people with the condition were pale

• it’s from ‘cretira’, the Romansh word for ‘creature’ (Romansh is a language spoken in the Swiss Canton of the Grisons (Graubünden))

• it’s from ‘cretine’ which is French for ‘alluvium’ (soil deposited by flowing water). This is a reference the condition's suspected origin in crappy soil.

Whatever the answer, don’t say ‘cretin’, kids. And if someone calls you one, please send them to this post.

monster

You know what a monster is – a large, frightening, usually imaginary (although there are plenty of real-life monsters, sadly) creature that’s generally trying to hurt or kill someone or something. But have you ever wondered where the word ‘monster’ came from?

‘Monster’ is a pretty old word, first appearing in the English language somewhere between 1000 and 1200 AD, when Willy the Conk invaded England and brought the French language with him (from which we borrowed lots of words, especially legal ones). The particular French word we’re interested in here is ‘monstre’. It comes from the Latin word ‘monstrum’, the past participle of ‘monere’, meaning ‘to warn’. So how did that turn into the gruesome noun we know today? Well, in ancient Rome ‘monstrum’ was used to describe anything strange or grotesque that could be seen as a warning from the gods or a bad omen – like a two-headed calf, for example. Over time the term evolved to cover anything a bit scary and/or weird.

One of the most famous monsters in my neck of the woods is probably Black Shuck, a ghostly black dog said to silently prowl the dark country lanes and coastal footpaths of East Anglia (and one of several black dog myths found all over the UK). Black Shuck is sometimes seen as an omen of death, but is also described as being quite friendly. Its size varies from that of a large dog to a horse. Black Shuck was first described in print by one Reverend ES Taylor in an 1850 edition of a journal called ‘Notes and Queries’ as ‘Shuck the Dog-fiend’. He said:

‘This phantom I have heard many persons in East Norfolk, and even Cambridgeshire, describe as having seen as a black shaggy dog, with fiery eyes and of immense size, and who visits churchyards at midnight.’

According to the OED, the name Shuck comes from the Old English word ‘scucca’, meaning 'devil’ or ‘fiend’.

One of the most famous reports of Black Shuck is of its appearance at the churches of Bungay and Blythburgh in Suffolk. On 4 August 1577, Black Shuck is said to have burst through the doors of the Blythburgh Holy Trinity Church accompanied by a clap of thunder. It ran up the nave, killed a man and boy in the congregation and somehow caused the church steeple to collapse through the roof. It left via the north door leaving scorch marks, which you can still see to this day. It also later appeared in St Mary’s Church in Bungay on the same day, which was recorded in ‘A Straunge and Terrible Wunder’ by Abraham Fleming:

Suffolk’s finest rockers The Darkness wrote a pretty awesome song about Black Shuck (which also mentions Blythburgh) on their 2003 album ‘Permission to Land’, which you can listen to below.

mascot

When you hear the word ‘mascot’, you probably think of someone dressed in an oversized costume running about at a sports event posing for pictures and hugging people. But in fact, the word ‘mascot’ has quite a sinister history, rooted in black magic and witches. OOOH.

Okay, I might have overegged the pudding ever so slightly. The word ‘mascot’ dates back to the 19th century, and comes from the French word ‘mascotte’, which was used to describe a lucky charm, talisman or magical object. This in turn came from ‘masco’, a Provençal (a dialect of southern France) term for a sorceress or witch. That probably comes from the Old Provençal word ‘masca’, meaning ‘mask’ or ‘spectre’. In the late 19th century, we started using the term to refer to a person, animal or object that brought luck or represents a group, like a sports team.

Sports team mascots are often chosen based on symbolism, characteristics or qualities that are supposed to bring positive energy or success. But sometimes they’re just downright scary. Take Kingsley, who represents Partick Thistle, a professional football club from Glasgow, and looks like a squashed sun with the cold dead eyes of a killer. He was designed by Turner Prize-nominated artist David Shrigley and was unveiled in 2015 to coincide with Thistle’s new sponsorship from investment firm Kingsford Capital Management. Reactions to Kingsley varied from ‘Lisa Simpson on meth’ to ‘the haggard face of the Teletubbies’ sun baby’. Kingsley also has the dubious honour of being the only mascot ever to earn a review from the Guardian’s art critic Jonathan Jones, who compared him to the monsters painted and sculpted by the surrealist Joan Miró. It obviously hit home as well, with Kingsley’s web page on the Partick Thistle site reading as follows:

‘There were a lot of mean things said about me when I first appeared, but I’m not too concerned because I know it’s what’s on the inside that counts. I’m a nice guy really – just a bit misunderstood … I might look a bit angry but I’m really very approachable and I love Partick Thistle. So don’t be scared to come and say hello if you see me out and about.’

Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?

WT actual F

capricious

If you’re feeling capricious, it means you’re full of caprice, AKA a sudden and seemingly unmotivated notion or action. So it basically means you’re feeling impulsive or unpredictable, or you’re a bit fickle (we use it to describe weather quite a lot). I decided to look into the backstory of ‘capricious’ because I heard somewhere that it comes from the Italian word ‘capro’ for ‘goat’, and referred to the way goats are all frisky and unpredictable (and eat just about anything). But a little bit of research revealed that it actually has nothing to do with goats at all. It does involve another, much smaller animal though…

Try to contain your excitement.

Caprice came to us via French from an Italian word, capriccio. This originally referred to someone suddenly shuddering with fear rather than being all unpredictable. It’s a smooshing together of two other Italian words: capo, which means ‘head’, and riccio, which is their word for ‘hedgehog’. That’s because when you shudder in fear your hair stands on end, making you a ‘hedgehog head’. Nice, right? But absolutely nowt to do with goats, sorry.

Hedgehog facts:

• The average adult hedgehog has between 5,000 and 7,000 spines.

• Hedgehogs are nocturnal, and one of only three animals that hibernate in the United Kingdom (the other two are bats, and the hazel dormouse which I suggest you google immediately because it’s SOOOOOOO cute).

• They’re surprisingly fast – a hedgehog can run over six feet per second and walk over two miles in a night.

• Baby hedgehogs are called ‘hoglets’ while a group of hedgehogs is called an ‘array’.

(You probably shouldn’t actually put a hedgehog in a cup.)

penthouse

You know what a penthouse is – the super-expensive apartment at the top of a block which has its own special key for the lift and amazing views (AKA something I’ll never live in). But why is it called a penthouse?

(Obviously there’s also a softcore porn magazine called Penthouse. If that’s what you’re interested in, you might need a different kind of website though – I’m afraid there’s only word porn here.)

Phwoarr, look at the views on that penthouse.

Well, it turns out penthouses haven’t always the purview of poshos. The word ‘penthouse’ has actually been around for about four centuries (so much longer than very tall buildings), and originally referred to any kind of outhouse or structure attached to the outside of a building. It comes from an Old French word, ‘apentis’, which means ‘attached building’ or ‘appendage’. This comes from a Latin verb, ‘appendere’, meaning ‘to hang something up’. That’s where we get other words like ‘pendulum’, ‘appendix’ and ‘depend’ (not ‘penis’ though, surprisingly).

In the 1300s, ‘apentis’ made its way into Middle English, dropping the ‘a’ somewhere along the way. It was still used to describe small structures with sloping roofs that were attached to other larger buildings though. People usually kept things like tools and animals in them, rather than super-rich celebs. Through a process called folk etymology (which is basically when we change a – usually foreign – word due to a mistaken assumption about its meaning, or mispronounce it so throughly and for so long that it becomes something else) the ‘is’ of ‘appentis’ became ‘house’.

It wasn’t until the beginning of the 20th century that penthouse took on the meaning it has today. As is often the case, no one seems completely sure how. Rooftop units were seen as pretty undesirable before the invention of lifts, and people tended to stick machinery, and servants, in them. The publisher Condé Nast takes some of the credit for popularising rooftop living. In the early 1920s he bought a building in New York and had the top floor – originally the servants’ quarters – converted into a 5,100-square foot apartment complete with six bedrooms, dining room, drawing room and library, all arranged around a 23 by 43 foot ballroom. Structures like this were often called ‘roof bungalows’ which doesn’t sound half as grand as ‘penthouse’ – so perhaps that’s why they were rebranded. The architect Emery Roth might have been responsible for this – he designed many top-floor apartments with terraces and is credited by his biographer Steven Ruttenbaum as having called these penthouses.

The upshot of all this is that I’m pretty sure that next time you’re in your shed, garage or outside loo, you can legit tell people you’re hanging out in your penthouse.

physiognotrace

A physiognotrace is a machine used to automate the production of silhouette portraits. Previously an artist would cut these out by hand. Although this was actually very quick to do, the demand for these types of portrait in the 1700s was so great that a Frenchman named Gilles-Louis Chrétien invented the physiognotrace (also spelled without the ‘g’) to speed things up even more.

Your subject would sit in profile and the physiognotrace used a pantograph (a metal arm made up of pivoted levers) to transmit the tracing to an engraving needle via an eyepiece. This made it easy to produce multiple copies, as well as aquatints, which are much more detailed portraits. The physiognotrace is considered a precursor to the camera, as it allowed artists to reproduce someone’s likeness in a fairly short space of time.

Physiognotrace is a portmanteau, i.e. two words smooshed together, of ‘physiognomy’ and ‘trace’ (you probably don’t need to be Susie Dent to figure that out).

Before photography, silhouette portraits were the cheapest way to record someone’s appearance. They’re named after Étienne de Silhouette, a French finance minister who was forced to impose austerity measures on France during the Seven Years’ War. Obviously no one liked that, and therefore him, so it wasn’t long before his name became synonymous with anything done on the cheap, including these little portraits, where it stuck.

Here’s a physiognotrace in action (accompanied by some very calming music).

A portrait made by a physiognotrace

I’d know that silhouette anywhere

cocktail

Summer is finally here (at least for the next day or so). And what better way to celebrate than with an ice-cold glass of something colourful and cold, maybe with an umbrella in it? But have you ever wondered why pina coladas, mojitos, bellinis et al are called cocktails? Well, the answer is… no one really knows.

Thankfully there are a few theories (which is good, cos otherwise this would be a really short post).

1. The horse theory

Back in the 17th century, the word ‘cock tail’ was used to describe a horse with a docked (i.e. cut short) tail. From there, ‘cock-tailed’ came to be used to describe non-thoroughbred racehorses. The theory goes that it was then applied to drinks made up of lots of mixed ingredients.

2. The eggcup theory

In late 18th century New Orleans, an apothecary (which seems to be synonymous with ‘barman’ in this context) by the name of Antoine Amédée Peychaud used to serve brandy in eggcups alongside bitters (I’ve learnt that ‘bitters’ refers to ‘alcohol infused with plant matter’ which sounds pretty gross to be honest. I also read it described as ‘spirits infused with fruit, spices, leaves, bark, roots and herbs – collectively known as botanicals’ which sounds all organic and artisanal, and also yum. Just goes to show the power of words… Also, you can still buy Peychaud’s bitters today). The theory is that ‘cocktail’ is a mispronounciation of the word ‘coquetier’ i.e. the French for eggcup.

3. The dregs theory

Ye olde tavern owners used to combine the dregs from the end of barrels and sell them off at a discount. These were called ‘cock tailings’, ‘tailings’ being another word for dregs, and ‘cock’ (no sniggering at the back) another name for the spigot or tap of a barrel.

So what’s the real story?

Well, according to spirits historian David Wondrich (I so wish this was my job), who’s done extensive research into this, the closest one to the truth is number 1 – the horse theory. But it’s actually a much more shady tale (or tail). Let’s head back to the 18th century again. Imagine you were in the market for a new horse. Apparently one of the things you would look for was a cocked (or raised up) tail. To fake this, unscrupulous horse dealers would shove a mixture of ginger and/or pepper up horses’ arses, the utter bastards. Ginger and pepper were also common ingredients used to liven up alcoholic drinks – hence, cocktail.

It certainly gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘bottoms up’…

avant-garde

This is ‘Fountain’ (1917) by Marcel Duchamp. Yup, it’s a urinal. With a signature on it.

If you’re avant-garde you’re usually an artist, intellectual or writer who experiments with work or ideas that challenges cultural norms (so it’s those pieces you see in galleries that make you say ‘I could knock that up at home’, which then go on to win the Turner Prize). But you knew all that already, right? The reason I’ve chosen it as the word of the week is because I found out its origins on this week’s Wittertainment podcast (which, considering it’s supposed to be about films, actually contains a surprising amount of etymology – see, for example, curfew, sabotage and egregious). And I had no idea how literal it is.

So, ‘avant-garde’ is French (naturellement), and translates literally as ‘advance guard’ (AKA ‘vanguard’). It was originally used by the French military to refer to a small group of soldiers that reconnoi… reconoi… reccono… scouted ahead of the main force. In the 19th century it became associated with left-wing French radicals campaigning for political reform. And from there it was then linked with the idea of art as a force for social change, eventually losing the association with left-wing social causes to become the term we know today.

One of the first artworks to be described as avant-garde was The Little Fourteen Year Old Dancer by Edgar Degas. Despite looking pretty inoffensive to us today, she caused an outcry when she was first exhibited in 1881. The public didn’t like how realistic she looked, or that she was a dancer – then considered a profession on a similar level to prostitution. Critics of the time described her as both ‘repulsive’ and ‘a threat to society’. I’d love to know what they would have made of Duchamp’s urinal.

David Bowie doing avant-garde like only David Bowie could

doryphore

You probably know a doryphore. I think we all do, sadly. It’s someone who enjoys pointing out when you make a small or trivial mistake. Despite sounding quite old-fashioned, ‘doryphore’ is a relatively new word in this context – it was coined by one Sir Harold Nicolson, a British politician, diplomat, historian, biographer, diarist, novelist, lecturer, journalist, broadcaster and gardener (and over-achiever). Now I confess I didn’t think I’d heard of him, but a bit of not-very-in-depth research revealed he was married to the writer Vita Sackville-West, who I definitely have heard of (screw you, patriarchy). They had what’s euphemistically known as a ‘complicated marriage’ – they were both bisexual and had several affairs with people of both sexes. Which their son then wrote a book about. Hmmm.

A Colorado potato beetle, ‘the most destructive potato pest in Europe’ apparently. It also likes tomatoes.

Anyway, I digress – let’s get back to the much more interesting subject of etymology. Nicolson introduced the world to the word ‘doryphore’ in the Spectator magazine in August 1952, describing it as a:

‘…questing prig, who derives intense satisfaction from pointing out the errors of others.’

He took the word from the French name of the Colorado potato beetle, which itself comes from the Greek word ‘doruphoros’ meaning ‘spear carrier’ (presumably because of the spear-like stripes on its back). So why did he pick on this particular beetle? Well, it’s a massive pest and eats, you’ve guessed it, potatoes. There’s a clue in the name. There’s also another clue in the name as to where it comes from, which is, well, Mexico. It’s extremely difficult to control because of its ability to quickly develop resistance to insecticides (much like the Borg in Star Trek).

‘Doryphore’ has also been used in France as slang for the occupying German soldiers in World War Two, and as a derogatory term for tourists.