Again

with the haircut, because it took...four...hours. yes the kids were with me. I could not get them to go the the park around the corner or to the bakery to get something to eat... and no, I did not expect this to take four hours. Pourquoi? First, there is a consultation, then one with the English speaking colorist, then cut and dry before we color. Because they are not about my garish American highlights, let me tell you. The colorist says, "I am going to fix it." Whatever. She explains the steps and then says she is going to put on some "clear." OK. So, three hours into this process, I am worried about my children. They are being angels, as the guy who actually cut my hair said later. But I am a little worried. Each step is taken with great care, and this whole process involves not one but three head massages. But as I am waiting in the chair, well into hour four, I am looking in the color book and noticing that the page about "clear" has models, beautiful of course, but all BLONDE. The squirrels in my head come to a complete standstill. Okay Dokey. This is an adult situation. We are going to act like an adult. In fact, we will love our brown roots and bright in appropriate blonde hair. It will be okay.

Needless to say it had nothing to do with blonde hair. It was some kind of shine. But after four hours they could have given me My Little Pony hair and I would have said, hey, cool, thanks! The kids were dazed zombies. My hair is awesome. Again, everyone there seemed so interested in their part of the job. And let's be clear, I paid no more than I pay at home and this was not a high dollar left bank shop. I may go back just for the head massage - when I have a sitter!

We spent the afternoon (it is gorgeous again! Thank you Paris!) at Luxembourg Gardens with a new friend and one of her delightful children (do you know how hard it is to find a hip brunette with a bun, jeans and converse and child on a sunny afternoon at the jardin?) The kids pushed the boats around for quite a while. Apparently while I was blabbing instead of watching attentively a little boy who thought Rachel was pushing HIS boat whacked her on the wrist with the pushing stick and starting yelling at her in French. Thankfully she just ignored him and we didn't have to deal with a body retrieval...we wandered over to the playground, which has a nice climbing feature and also a zip line - not as big as the one Stephen made in Monteagle yard that covered half an acre, but nice enough. Also, we watched our friend's daughter meet a little French girl and hit the tragic language barrier. This sweet girl offered her a place on a little toy and twirled her around, and then stood dejected as her overture in french was met with a stare. So sad.

An orangina at a cafe on St. Germain on the way home...a polite waiter, one who smiled...I could get used to this.