ca y est!

before




after

the long and short of it

So I've been putting off cutting my hair for far too long now even though there's a hairdresser a stone's throw away from my apartment. But I refuse to go there for the same reason I refuse to go to many of the hairdressers in France; they practice a kind of hair discrimination.

There's a price for men, and there are two prices for women - one for long and short hair. The price for people who choose to have long hair is about 10 euros more. I know 10 euros is not alot of money but it's the principle of it. What accounts for the price difference? More elbow extension required by the hairdresser?

So about two Saturdays ago I set out to cut my hair at the same price as it would cost one with short hair. I started in my neighborhood and went down towards a more price conscience neighborhood, Place de Clichy. The further I walked the further the prices dropped as I had predicted. What I hadn't predicted, however, was the disparity between the short and long haired increasing.

It seemed as though cutting long hair was a fixed price and cutting short hair is variable. Is long hair a commodity item and short hair vunerable to supply and demand? Perplexed I continued towards Pigalle.

Where I couldn't find any hairdressers. Perhaps nobody wanted to cut their hair next to a shop that sells latax chaps and leather whips (although apparently people have no qualms about eating next to one).

Before turning back and giving up on my quest I happened down a less touristy street and found a hairdresser decorated in red velvet and victorian gold trimming. Inside was a flamboyant bald hairdresser laughing with a well to do older woman in a fur coat. Next to the window were yellow and red parakeets in a green cage that match the decor.

Although tempted to be part of the fabulousness, I mentally calcuated the overhead price of flamboyancy and birdfood and turned around to leave instead. There, across the street I spotted another hairdresser. "Women 31 euros" was written on the window. There was no mention of the length of hair. Tired and ready to move on with my life I entered.

The receptionist washed my hair and the hairdresser wearing a busy button down shirt (he refrained from using the top buttons to reveal his "too dark to be natural in winter Paris" tan) gave me a five minute haircut and then proceeded burn my scalp a little in his overzealous efforts to give my hair volume.

He held up the mirror to show me the result and I politely nodded my approval even though even someone like me is aware that the volumous asymetrical hairsyle he gave me looks ridiculous with sweatshirt and jeans.

I went to the counter to pay. 41 euros.

You can't beat the system.

3.0.

So yesterday I welcomed a friend to the big 3.0. and everyone wanted to know how he felt. As if turning 30 was the onset of some disease or the end of something like a marathon. I guess it does marks the end of you're 20s. Very much the way 20 marks the end of your teens. But yet I don't remember people asking me how turning 20 felt.

Let's see, the big ones were 16 (driving), 18 (voting), and 21 (drinking). Is it the accomulating of rights what makes an age noteworthy? If so what right is to be gained at the age of 30?

The right to freak out comes to mind. Freaking out when turning 30 is allowed and perhaps even encouraged (I myself recieved a red card with the numbers three and zero and the words "remain calm" printed in a re-assuring white).

Why do people freak out when they turn 30? Maybe because you know you're suppose to and if people are good at anything, it's inventing reasons for freaking out.

Truth is, at any given moment of our lives we could have more, do better, or lead an idealized life we think other people have.

For my friend's birthday I got him a collection of short stories about birthdays selected by the famed Japanese writer Haruki Murakami. I found the book while rummaging through an English bookstore at Village Saint-Paul. I happened to be eavesdropping when the clerk was making a recommendation of books by Murakami to an Amercian women who wanted the store to send books to her secret friend.

Secret friend, I thought to myself. What makes him/her a secret? Was it a secret lover? Someone famous? And if it was truly a secret why was she making a point of saying "secret" when just saying friend would have sufficiently hidden their identity?

It occurred to me then that perhaps it was her intention for someone to inquire about this interesting, secretive life that she leads.

I bought the book and left.

OK!

So I've been trying to get in touch with people I still know in Japan due to all the craziness that's been going on over there. Unfortunately I was unable to reach my surrogate Japanese family because the last time I contacted them it was by snail mail (not very practical in this case) and the email address I had for them bounced back. After some maneuvering I managed to retrieve their phone number.

Yesterday I called them. The call lasted 15 minutes and consisted of the following parts:

5 minutes: Correctly trying to identify that I was me and he was him. I am surprised he didn't hang up on me.

5 minutes: Conversation with someone who has completely forgotten Japanese with someone who hasn't spoken English in 6 years. 4 out of the 5 minutes consisted of the word "OK".

Me: You OK?
Him: OK OK.
Me: Wife OK?
Him: OK OK.
Me: Son OK?
Him: OK OK.

And so on and so forth.

5 minutes: Them trying to get my contact information.

Her: Gibe me Kerry-chan
Me: B
Her: B
Me: O
Her: O
Me: U
Her: U
Me: L
Her: R
Me: (Oh shit Japanese people have problems distinguishing between R and l) No L
Her: R
Me: No, ELLLA (I am screaming at this point in my apartment)
Her: [something that sounds like a cross between R and L)
Me: OK (maybe she wrote down L but was saying R?)
Me: E
Her: E
Me: V
Her: B
Me: No VEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Her: BEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Me: ...
Her: Kerry-chan?
Me: I. write. you. I. give. you. address. You. write. me.
Her: OK OK. Sanku berry muchi.

Sadly our conversations have always been this way (although the degradation - nay disappearance of my Japanese made it a bit worse) and as I hung up the phone I couldn't help but think of the fresh sashimi and greasy karaage (they always wanted to include something "western") they served at dinners of their house in Shiroishi (I used to say that I was coming to Shiroi-oishii). And of the sweet white wine that accompanied to help narrow the language gap and kept the conversation flowing.

The story of their lives enfolded to me, and mine to them, then, over the course of these dinners. I also remembered how sad I felt when I said goodbye to them, this Japanese couple that welcomed me into their home when I was far away from mine.

Natsukashii.

prochain niveau

So about a month ago, I had a French exam to move on to the next level. One major weekend cram session (where before I could start on things on the exam like the subjonctif I had to first review things like 2nd group present verb conjugation) and two breakdowns later (both involving trying to use the plus-que parfait correctly) I am happy to say I somehow managed to recieve a passing score.

Which brings us to today which was the first day of the new level. Felt a little like the first episoide of a new season - same familar characters from before but a couple of new, fresh faces - including the teacher. As she put on the chalkboard bullet points of what we would be learning I couldn't help but notice what a stark contrast she is to my previous teacher.

First of all it was a man. And he was old - one semester away from retiring. He never explained what we would learn, he would simple just start teaching and there was never really any cohesion to the lessons. We'd end a lesson reading dialog highlighting the future tense with promises to continue in the next lesson and apon arrival of the next lesson he would hand out worksheets on relative pronouns (We started the conditional three times).

He would give examples and then go on tangents that lasted 15 minutes (color adjective comes after the noun like in des yeux bleus... did I mention one time I met a Russian guy with blue eyes ande I swear he was a spy because he was trying to use my mailbox to recieve secret mail?). And sometimes he would make no sense at all (Addressing Japanese student - Don't all Japanese names begin with a vowel?).

The new teacher is young and well structured. Her goal is for us to learn and you can tell she doesn't lose sight of that. Everything that comes out of her mouth has the purpose and that is to teach us something (Can anybody tell me which tense I just used?). She also talks to us like we're in elementary school (Very good!) what one of those encouraging smiles that make you want to give the right answer so she would stop.

On the first day of class the previous teacher had us introduce oursevles and then went on to talk about all the "strange" nationalities he's had in the past. Then he let us go home early.

This teacher had us pair up and introduce the other person to the class... using words starting with the letters of our name. After 5 minutes of trying to think of words related to me for K.E.L.L.Y and coming up empty we changed tactics.

My partner: Do you like Khoalas?
Me: Um. I guess they're cute.
My partner: Do you like to wash things? (Laver in french is wash).
Me: Um. I wash myself...

So in the end I'm a Khoala loving girl from Etats Unis who speaks many languages (it's not true but at least I didn't tell the class I like to wash things or myself) and loves to lire (read) while eating yogurt (which is, coincidentally, something I have in common with many other students in the class who's name involved the letter Y).

grands magasins

So it's sale season in France and I was determined last weekend to find two things: flat black boots and a dress for a friend's wedding. Sounds simple right? Actually it was extremely difficult due to, I think, it's simplicity.

In other words I couldn't find anything simple. If a boot was black it also had buckles, or dangly things, or 4 inch heels, or sparkles (or all of the above). Same with the dresses. I would find something I thought was decent only to pull it out from the rack and there be a giant polka dot bow attached to the shoulder or better yet I would be blinded by the reflective light generated by the vast amount of sequence (sparkles are apparently in this season).

After hitting up my usual go to stores and I realizing that anything classic last season was extinct like dinosaurs I decided to venture into the big department stores.

Normally I avoid department stores because I am overwhelmed by the massive selection. Too many choices and I am lost.

But the department stores are quite famous in Paris so I decided to check it out. As I expected there were indeed a vast seemingly endless selection of luxury goods. However there were a couple of surprises.

The first surprise was the department stores wishing me "Happy New Year". As in a happy Chinese new year.

Or maybe not me but all the Chinese consumers. And there were a lot.

I've heard all about the rapidly growing Chinese economy and even that they had recently surpassed Japan as the world's second largest economy. But that's all been what people have been saying, in the department stores I could actually see this change. There were still a lot of Japanese consumers but there were by far more Chinese. In most of the major luxury brands there was a vendor that spoke Chinese. This means the Chinese were buying very expensive things and enough of it as to have someone assisting them in their native tongue.

The second surprise was how friendly all the vendors was. I only had to glance at a map before someone came asking me if they could help me. And help me they did. In English and with a smile and general pleasant demeanor.

I won't say this doesn't happen in Paris but I will say it doesn't happen often. Usually if you can find someone to help you, it seems a bit like you are bothering them. That's if you can find someone to help you at all. But this was not at all present in the department stores. Everyone was, dare I say it, friendly.

And that's when it struck me. The department store is where the image of Paris as the romantic, luxurious, and friendly city of lights is packaged, gift wrapped, and sold to the rest of the world.

I spent all my Saturday there among the Louie Vuitton bags and Valentino haute couture gowns (just looking of course). In the end I did find my black boots and dress with the help of smiling impeccability well dressed vendors.

cuc mong nam mo

So this past weekend I went to the 20eme arrondissement of Paris to check out the Chinese New Year parade I read about in the newspaper. And this is what I saw:



Is it just me or do even the dragons look confused? Like, what's going on? Where are we suppose to be? Do YOU know?

It was a hot mess from the minute we got off the metro. Everyone was just standing around with no particular sense of where they should be forming a crowd. Finally somebody must have spotted something and that started the barade towards the dragons.

I too herded but it was too late and all I saw were people's heads or out-streteched hands holding cameras trying to take a picture over said heads.

But it wasn't a big deal for me because the dragons, the lion dance, the drums - this was the same as what you can find in the States. What was different however, was the way they it was organized (or not organized). The laissez faire-ness of it all. I found that to be particularly French (in the States there would have been signs, tape, indication of what what was going on).

One of the great things about living in a foreign country for me is discovering it's culture. Living in France however, I have an added bonus of not only discovering French culture but discovering Asian French culture as well giving me a new perspective on how cultures merge, reconciliation with one another, and form a new unique identity.

After the parade we went to duck noodles. I couldn't finish mine so I asked the bf if he thought it would be ok if I asked for what was left to go. He didn't think so, that just wasn't done in France.

Normally I would agree but between the sound of clanging chopsticks in my ear and the roasted duck dripping grease in the corner of my eye, I decided to ask the waiter anyways.

It was no problem. Asian is Asian.