The Crown of Victory

Today, I commemorate my first attempt at going to a hair salon in France, and in French. I have already conquered the Doctor, but let's be honest, this is clearly a matter of much more gravity. Without my blonde locks, I tend to whither into oblivion, my soul wilting as humidity shackles my curls and the dead ends thanklessly trail down my back as a reminder of imminent mortality. When my hair is appropriately highlighted, however, my roots a glossy halo of hope, and structure instilled by a foreign sediment seeping through my scalp takes hold, I am reborn. I spend the rest of the day sheepishly (or more rather blatantly) stealing (that is to say staring) sidelong glances of myself in shop windows as they pass, a glimmering landscape of life and love...

Sure sure, I'm being extra special dramatic today. But truth be told, it really does make a huge difference in perspective when you don't feel like a drowned rat. As summer approaches and dress slash sandal season is tantalizingly close, I can't help but crave the appropriate crown to complete my exquisite ensemble. That being said, my adventures in foreign language continue to progress as I am constantly made aware of how much French I know, and how little French I actually know. I walked into the salon with my basic points plotted out and for the most part thought that I was expressing myself fairly well. It was only when I was caught off guard by a question I was not expecting or spoken too while a loud faucet was blasting my head that I couldn't even understand the word "temperature" and felt like a verbally challenged 4-year-old. I admit that up until my hair was being blow-dryed, I really wasn't sure if I was going to be walking away with blonde highlights or some sort of death rocker do. I'm aware that the chances of the latter were slim considering I didn't see anything resembling black or a mohawk but you just never know. And since the weather in Paris lately has been temperamental at best (fickle Mother Nature tormenting us with her trixy ways... 10 minutes sun, 10 minutes downpour, 10 minutes blazing sunshine, 10 minutes hail-bejeweled mistral), it is a dangerous game we are playing from the get-go. 

Regardless of all, I was rewarded with a an afternoon of stunningly smooth hair that withstood all manner of diabolical tempest. And upon arrival at my sweet princess tower, my new guitar awaited me in the hallway. Henceforth I can compose music to accompany my dulcet tones and sing melancholy masterpieces out my tower window... yes of course, my crown of golden tresses streaming from my head.