The Haircut

I remember when I was between the ages of 8-11 or at some time in my early youth when everything in the world seemed so large in general. My mother would take me to her hairdressers since she presumably preferred a professional to cut my hair than giving me the ol’ “soup bowl” treatment and most likely had never set foot in a traditional barbershop. We until this day continue to share this trait of paying a little extra and pampering ourselves to look our best. Anyway, I remember this one period in time and hairdressers quite vividly. The waiting room had earthy shag carpet, wood paneling and plush brown oversized sofas with throw pillows. Classic 70s. On the wall hung photos of attractive young models wearing the latest hair styles both men and women with lots of wings and feathers, as the vernacular of the day would go.

I would wait my turn bouncing about on the big soft cushions while Donna Summer or some other Disco tune du jour played over the speakers on the walls. Once my mother got comfortably set in her chair for a color treatment or something I would be called to the chair. The stations themselves were separated by a wood lattice divide with fairly large openings that still afforded some privacy.

I had a particularly favorite stylist whose name I can’t recall. Debbie? Anyway, she was in her early 20s and attractive (ok, maybe I wasn’t that young) and was always ready with a compliment on how cute and engaging of a child I was. Traits I have undoubtedly outgrown now. I remember how we would talk and talk the whole time throughout the haircut. And it was so nice! Maybe because I felt like I was having a “real” conversation with a person that wasn’t my mother, father or my invisible friend Joey.

All I remember was how excited I was to have that opportunity to interact. I’m sure it was the most banal conversation imaginable but the girl was so kind to me and made me feel so special for that half an hour. (Kind of like what happens to me in Strip Clubs now but I'm way too aware I'm paying for it) To have that desire to communicate with a stranger about nothing, to make a nice connection for a few moments. To share a laugh, a smile and some compliments. What a warm sensation.

Today I got my haircut at the stylist 200 meters from my flat here in Germany. I always go in right before five, as that’s when small businesses close here and there’s never anyone else there. They are all heading home to eat an early supper which is the custom and which the Turkish woman who is the owner and who always cut my hair will do a few minutes after she locks up her shop.

A few pleasantries are exchanged and I sit down for my cut. We are both silent preferring to be elsewhere at that moment lost in our thoughts. It’s not an issue of language as I can slaughter German enough to be understood. No, it’s something else. A tiredness. A tiredness of the repetition. Of the several hundredth time that I’ve plopped down in the chair to await if my haircut comes out like I envision it in my mind’s eye and wishing I would see a few more hairs on the top. For her, the tens of thousandths time that she has stared down at a head as she mechanically and quickly moves about with the scissors.

We’ve both been here before so many times that we forgot that it once was new. That there was something to learn, something to feel, and something that we may not have experienced before. We have both forgotten so we just sit and silence and anticipate the end.

Pepe Le Pue and McCroissants too!

I have this theory that the reason why the French and Americans are seemingly at such cultural odds is that deep down they are exactly the same.

(Please, let me out! I didn't know mixing Poulet au Moutarde with a Bordeaux was a crime here, honest.)

Before you get your American red, white and blue blood in a boil, hear me out. First our histories are very intertwined. They were the first country that recognized our independence from the British. In fact, without them we wouldn’t have won the war. (sound familiar?) Then Francophiles such as Franklin and Jefferson took many trips to France and brought back French ideals as well as numerous exotic social diseases. The French then based their revolution on ours (albeit it turned out a little messier). Their flag is red, white and blue and they have a copy of the Statue of Liberty (the original which they gave to us) sitting in the middle of the Seine in Paris! We then came to their aid several times once the Germans starting doing their goosestep thing.

History aside, our attitude is the same. We have such pride in our own cultures, traditions and history that we don’t back down from anything, ever. We both don’t care what the rest of the world thinks as we feel we are both above global scrutiny. Tell me does this sound familiar?

France has many immigrants from all over the world but when you walk down a Paris street they are all speaking French. Africans, Arabs, Asians, Latinos…only in French. When the French travel abroad even in Europe they only speak French. They are loud and demanding and ask for items that are only available in their country as they are not aware that other lands may not have heard of Pastis. Their radio stations play lots of French music, their kinos French films. When they said “no” to the Iraq War (the correct answer as I predicted and events have borne out) Americans hated them claiming that they had betrayed us. How many times have the Americans said “no” when it suited us? We are exactly the same down deep where it counts.

All this buildup is coming to the point I realized on my latest adventure to Paris last month. They have a right to be the way they are. They are the undisputed center of culture in the Western world and Paris is the jewel. You can feel it when you are there. You walk those amazing streets and it is all around you, the art, the richness, the fashion, the style of life and oh the cafés (even that word is French!). There is such an air of confidence and security in this society and I maintain this is not arrogance. If you ever really talk to a French person you will notice they have no need to be arrogant. Italy is all a façade (another French word), an illusion. Many Russians are arrogant to hide a national insecurity of a country that is so large and rich in many ways but has always remained impotent and backwards when compared to other world powers. They even tried a French style renaissance under Katherine the Great. In France you can keep digging and digging and you’ll never reach the cultural bottom. There’s even art in the subways!

When I was in the new “hip” nightlife area north of the Bastille on the Rue Oberkampf I saw a live 60s/70s “retro” band. But it wasn’t all "Brickhouse" and “Play that Funky Music” and the other 20 songs one would hear at an American club, it was the real music that they actually played on the radio at that time! Most people had never the songs but it was great, they danced and the band didn’t care if people knew the songs or not. They just played well and entertained. Now that’s style. After the band the DJ continued in that vein playing old songs I had never heard before from 30 years ago. It was one of the most refreshing “disco” experiences I had ever had and I danced all night feeling that I was really teleported back in time.

Yes, they have their issues too (in fact as I write Paris is burning from race riots) but all societies have their injustices and lessons to learn. Right, Rodney King? All I’m saying is that Paris is an amazing experience if one learns a bit of the language (trust me, my French is not great and I was well received) leaves their Nike baseball cap and desire to eat at an Olive Garden at home and opens oneself up to the marvels that this society can offer. Yes, and you can feel free to remind the French to do the same when they are coming through your town.

Au Revoir!

(Nothing screams true "retro" like a Leopard print jacket. When in Paris check out the Oberkampf district and be prepared to go "native")