It's Not the Guillotine!

As all of you in the group have noticed, I recently chopped off my hair. Granted it was pretty short before, but I went from a bob to a pageboy cut. I have always thought short hair was cute in an Audrey Hepburn way, and I have wanted to change the style for a while. When I got to Paris I noticed all of these girls with adorable shorn hair and I kept seeing similar styles all over. On Tuesday, I finally found the courage to do it--an impulsive decision but a good one. I started searching for a "coiffure" and found a couple on Montparnasse near my apartment. A thing about French hairstyling: shampoo, cut, and styling are not all together. You have to ask directly for what you want. The first place I went to advertised a 30 euro deal for shampoo, cut, and style. However, when I went in and asked to get an appointment and they figured out I was American, the price automatically jumped to 60 euros. I'm sure many of you have had similar things happen to you at restaurants or boutiques, and it is always so frustrating!

Anyway, I continued on the hunt and found another place that looked a bit more friendly. I asked for an appointment and she told me to come back in thirty minutes. A note about French timing: 30 minutes will quickly turn into over an hour and you will just have to be patient. Finally my blue-eyeshadowed peroxide blonde stylist got back to me. I don't speak much French and she spoke about the same amount of English, but through gestures and pictures I explained what I wanted. I sat down, the lady put a robe on me and forcefully moved my head to the side. I am a twitchy person and although I thought I was doing a good job of following her directions, Whap! She hit me in the side of the head with her comb. "You not move, cool?" But then that made me even more squirmy, so finally she asked "Why you stressed? You too pretty to be stressed! It's not the guillotine! Cool?" She went back to cutting my hair and muttering things in French, but I couldn't understand a word that she was saying so I just tried my hardest to stay still. Eventually she lightened up and asked me where I was from. I told her that I was from the U.S. and that I was studying art history. "Oh!" she exclaimed, and then began to dance around singing the refrain from the Italian song "Tu vuò fà l'americano" (which means "You pretend to be American"). Finally she was done with my hair and asked with pride if I liked it. "Tres chic!" I replied, and then she gave me two "bisous" on my cheeks. It was the strangest salon experience I've had, but I left feeling a bit more stylish and definitely triumphant.