Famous last words...

I’m contemplating a French experience fraught with danger and huge consequences. It’ll probably take months to undo all the damage, and who knows how I’ll manage day-to-day with it hanging over my head.

I’m very seriously considering getting a haircut in Paris.

Since growing out the rather disastrous bowl cut of my early childhood (what were you thinking, Maman?) I’ve never done anything special with my hair. It’s hung a bit past shoulder-length for almost fifteen years. What better place to go wild with layers and side bangs for the first time in my life than Paris?

That said, I’m planning to bring along a dossier of vocabulary and key phrases, such as “Please don’t make me bald” and “I want side bangs, not a pixie cut.” I’m bracing myself for a showdown with the hairdresser worthy of the makeovers on America’s Next Top Model (maybe I’ll cry as they snip off a few inches of my hair, to keep the comparison going).

It’ll be epic and dangerous and I’ll probably regret it. But I’m going to do it anyway.

You’re all fully entitled to say I told you so.