Living in a country where everyone else speaks French and I don't has made me reevaluate what bravery is. I currently have a new contender for bravest thing attempted in France: I got my hair cut.
I find it hard enough to communicate with a hair stylist about what I want done with my hair when we both speak the same language, so attempting that communication in French was intimidating. This is why I had put off getting my hair cut for about . . . oh . . . eight months.
I know, I know--I admit my shame. It was a terrible thing to do to my poor hair. I would like to argue that it is obvious that at CERN, most of the grad students go months and months without getting their hair cut or trimmed, so I wasn't out of the ordinary, except I do Not want to look like a typical graduate student. I am also not at all convinced my dear colleagues go for so long without hair cuts or shaves because they are frightened of French hair stylists.
But, I had a big trip I was preparing for, and I was tried of my frizzy broken hair. I gathered my courage, spent a couple days hunting down vocabulary and useful phrases, and then betook myself to Val-thoiry to make my request.
It went really well. I had brought pictures of what I wanted done, the hair stylist understood me with my carefully prepared phrases and some hand gestures, and she spent a good hour washing, cutting, trimming, shaping, and then drying my hair. I almost feel sorry for her; she could have given three guys trims in the time she spent on me. But she did a fabulous job, and I now have much healthier, happier hair.
I also have lost my unofficial title as the person with the longest hair in my group. I believe I am now third. The top rank is held by the female post-doc, while second goes to one of those guys who might be afflicted with the same fear I was.
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