A wild hair

There are some blog readers who are friends that know of my previous blog. There are some parts to me that I'm sure my parents, sister, cousins, aunts, uncles, school chums, previous colleagues had no idea existed. Or, possibly, they know these sides to me exist and, instead, I think they're well hidden / under control.

Sometimes we all have to let shake out the wild inside. Sometimes we have to cut the rug -- and really cut it. Some days I feel like I keep it all together so well and have moments where I've got to just break the glass and let it all hang out.

Well, I'm having said moment.

It's a rollercoaster ride this move. I often wonder if my parents went through these emotions when I was a kid living it up in Argentina or Germany, oblivious to adult preoccupations. I wonder if the adults actually became anxious with the thought of being in a foreign country, if they were exhausted at 3pm from just thinking about living, if they relied on the idea of us kids to force themselves to keep it together. I can't even imagine how my parents learned to drive in Buenos Aires. Watching the traffic in Paris has given me enormous pause when thinking about trying the Velib. (Interestingly, France's Dept of Road Safety has been thinking about this, too.)

On Thursday, walking, getting lost in Paris to my destination of the march/manifestation, I was so happy. Finding the manifestation still going, I was so happy. The sun setting and having to walk 2 hours home (after walking 2 hours there), I was so happy.

Friday, I got up and thought I just couldn't face the world. Studied all day inside until my haircut appointment at 5pm. Yes, the hazardous, perilous, dangerous, risky event of getting a haircut in a new city. I'd seen a few places around Paris. Walking home Thursday night through the Marais (gay, stylish, fabulous part of town), I saw a few glaringly fashionable places. But I'd already made an appointment with a small hole-in-the-wall place near my apartment with hip looking stylists and a kind of garage decor on the inside.

Well... well... well... Upon closer inspection: There was no 'product,' as we call it in the States, anywhere. No shampoo to sell, no conditioner, no spray. Okay, no big deal. Maybe they specialize in only cutting and don't sell the styling part. I watched the guy stylist cut a guy patron and he looked good. I watched the lady stylist cut a woman and she got barely-there-bangs. I think she was complaining a bit because the woman stylist looked a bit worried and perturbed. So she fluffed with a small, cheap hairdryer and seemingly dull scissors. I notcied that they both cut dry and then washed and tweaked. I was wearing pigtails (my hair was that long) and thought maybe that'd mess things up as far as judging how my hair actually was at that time.

Needless to say. Yes, needless. to. say. It was my turn and I was excited - fun new adventure! I'm letting someone have artistic license with my hair because we agreed I would trust her artistry since I can't speak enough French to ask for anything specific and she can't speak enough English to check in with the progress of the cut.

Despite this fact, I really wasn't sure that this place was even a legit salon. I wasn't sure this woman knew how to do a shampoo and there was a weird fact that when sitting in the shampoo chair, I was offered another chair to prop my legs up on. Also, I wasn't sure she could really cut hair. It was the wildest pick-up-hair-between-fingers-snip-snip thing I'd ever seen. A few times I thought I'd lose an eye or a cheek. It was very random and she was very distracted by what the guy stylist was doing, or what was going on outside in the street. And she asked me if I'd dyed my hair myself as she found it very odd that there were patches that were colored and not a uniform blonde or red. I grabbed my small dictionary and told her, blushing and kind of half-heartedly laughing, that she knew how to tell the truth in a strong way! Huge red lights were going off in my head and in front of my eyes, but I knew going in that I might get a Fred Flinstone - it was all for the experience. It's only hair. Breathe. No big deal.

Looking back, I'm not sure I understand this whole situation. Was the salon really just a front for something else? Was it a cultural thing, like a drive-thru salon or something? She'd said they'd just moved to this spot in Septemeber and they came from a city not called Paris just before. Were they from teh suburbs and didn't have a handle on cool? Do stylists even have to be licensed or trained? Were they undercover cops set up in a make-shift salon? It's not like the place was a wreck. I mean, it looked legit and cool. They seemed like very nice people.

Yeah, yeah, I know. My friend Julien said don't go in this neighborhood. It's the red-light district after all. Well... I wanted to try my own 'hood.

Yeah. Not so much here.

It's not like I was hideous when I left. I mean, I was still a girl, but I just didn't feel the upliftingness of haircuts.

But a few hours later... I had dinner down the block during the beginning of the rugby game (Argentina v. France - who do I root for?!). A very odd man sat next to me, just on the other side of a small wall/post. Throughout his dinner, he hummed under his breath in a weird, obsessive way - almost like a lonely accountant on his last straw.

Back home, I got a wild hair (pun intended) and I decided, well screw it. I'm not happy with the haircut and frankly, I think I could do better on my own with a pair of scissors. (Gasps from my friends in the fashion world, I know.) But frankly, from the crap haircut I got there wasn't anywhere to go but up.

Well, there's a pile of hair in the bathroom to attest to the right or wrongness of my wildness. Either way, hair grows back and I'm not off on any interviews this month or trying to impress any business conservatives. And, frankly, I'm a little surprised by the laxness in Paris. I mean, there's definitely a more strict adherence to proper attire for each job, and a certain conservative tradition for the workforce. But there's also a higher tolerance for difference, generally speaking. Like NYC, there are fashion freaks, like the nouveau punks with the fashionable Sex Pistols mohawks and skinny jeans with Louis Vuitton hats and Dolce & Gabana belts. As the books have said, Paris loves flair.

So, I decided to see if I could do better.

I'm not so sure I can or can't. The jury's out. I'm not hideous and I'm definitely not the stuffy old girl who came out from the paid haircut. But I'm not sure I captured what I was going for. Hence, my thanks to Sarah for recommending her stylist. We'll see what he's got open tomorrow -- and if he can work miracles.

An odd thought though, this hair obsession. Firstly, it was such a moment of great apprehension today before the appointment. The nervousness had been building over a week of talking to my lady colleagues of what they would do for cuts. And one got a drastic, new fashion, super fun and sexy cut and kind of set the tone of aspiration, as it were.

It's only hair, but yet it's so defining a trait. Some say it makes up 50% of the look of your face.

I had decided today to take what I got, but at the same time I had these grand visions and imposed them on this local coiffeur while patrons coming in and out had very simple demands it seemed. And is my hair so much more complicated?

I have friends who have dealt with cancer and lost hair in the process. What does hair mean to them? To some it is a very important part of their features. Some opt for wigs, some - like our previous Attorney General of Wisconsin - go bald. The latter is not yet the socially acceptable, womanly, attractive option yet. We are still a world ruled by distorted ideas of beauty and hair is a major part of that.

What does it really mean though? Short hair or long? Framing certain features or telling certain stories.

I guess that's a piece of why I decided to chop away at mine with regular old scissors. I'm a bit worn by the intense idea of beauty here. I'm also attracted to and repulsed by the choppy reinvention of '80s. I kept thinking of this butch in Madison who once spilled a drink on Josh at a punk show. She had this fabulous head of hair trimmed into a nerdy, mathematic, smooth mohawk. She had some kind of awe for me. She possessed some kind of riskiness and suaveness but also naturalness. Her hair seemed to exude itself and her own power.

The power of hair. So odd.

UPDATE: Sunday, 21 October

I'm sure by now that you're wondering what I've done and how it all turned out. Well, I highly recommend Stephane at Cizor's Hair Shop, 9 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud 75011 (Metro: Oberkampf); 01.47.00.62.41; cizors@free.fr; Tues-Fri 10h30-20h and Sat 10h-19h. Sarah recommended him and he was a blessing. I love the seahorse theme - a big, beautiful, white seahorse in the main window. The receptionist/assistant took my coat and hung it up and offered coffee or tea. Stephane, without having to say much except smile, took a look at my head, listened to my choppy "histoire de mes cheveux," and sent me off to get a shampoo. The young assistant woman gave me about a 10 minute head massage which promptly made me want to cry tears of relief (I did let one little one fall down my cheek). If I understood correctly one of the regular customers was offered a glass of champagne. We laughed at how the Mini outside covered in cute Hello Kitty couldn't park, while a favorite remix of Radiohead played quietly in the background. I bought some lovely product for the new 'do and feel so very much better. It is odd indeed how a bad haircut can really affect a person and how a good haircut can almost save them.

Well, you'll have to check out the whole transition to see for yourself.