Nice accent

What happened to the wonderful climatic nervous breakdown that February let us bask in, confused but willingly? Memories of meandering along the Viaduc des Arts under a never-ending blue sky, walking home from Japanese dinner in the Bastille with nothing but an open trench (ha! I'm leaving that sentence alone), and leaving the windows open to read at night seem like hallucinations now.

Since March reared its gray, rainy head, the fun of global warming has been shot to hell. To boot: we were "victims of an attempted robbery" exiting Gare de Lyon the other evening (don't worry, concerned parents- I could have taken the guy out in heels and a straight jacket- and carrying groceries), I've been plagued with two painful zits, both landing on strategically visible points on the pasty canvas of my cheeks, and I keep swearing up and down to the Jeebsters that one of these days I am going to march over to our local Buddy Jim to sign-up for kick boxing classes, as opportunities for practice are aplenty right now at Gare Satan Lazare.

As charming a self-portrait as this may paint, this is not a disposition in which I can allow myself to wallow for more than a morning. How to remedy this streak of bad attitude-ness? Besides investing in illicit arms and a ski mask (to the drunken fool who tried to jump us on Thursday: please note that I am steadfastly pursuing my dream of kick boxing for emotional release, even if the weather does improve), the easiest solution, as other bloggers have noted, is to chop that blah right outta my hair. Because it goes without saying that my lifeless gnarls of split-ends were doing nothing to improve my mental outlook.

No sooner thought than done, et hop! you are reading a woman with a new 'do, and a brightened point de vue. I wish my brilliant hair analyst Mom was here to interpret the current look - I'm sort of thinking a hybrid between Mary Tyler Moore and me in third grade. And franchement, I love it.

When I queued up for a cut at the Frank Provost auspiciously located right next to my dentist's posh office (a floor above Cacharel!) this afternoon, I stood waiting, a straggly, out-dated pile of Help Me! One delicious hair wash and soin, coupe, brushing later, and I literally skipped out of the salon, deliberately adding a bounce to my step just to feel my mane's new buoyancy.

It did help - just a little bit - that my assigned coiffeur was adorable. And gentle. And very good looking. Although decidedly not as interested in my fesses as in my tresses. When we were chatting about speaking a foreign language, me deploring my pathetic display of hairstyle vocabulary, he reassured me, "Ne vous en faites pas, mademoiselle - l'accent anglophone est tout à fait charmant... vous ne devriez pas chercher à le perdre complètement." (Don't fret, miss - the Anglo accent is entirely charming. You shouldn't try to lose it completely)

Sometimes all it takes is a shampooing/coupe/brushing and a handsome coiffeur calling you mademoiselle to drench you in glorious rays of sunshine.

photo courtesy of www.celebrityfree.org