'Why are your eyebrows red?’
asked Wingman one morning, a few days before I was scheduled to leave for my
trip to France. I ran to the mirror and looked at my reflection.
Sure enough they looked like two red caterpillars, and itched like f*ck.
Clearly I had a reaction to
the brow dye. In preparation for my trip I’d had my eyebrows shaped. The
‘stylist’ suggested the extra colour, as the brows never returned to their full
luster after chemo. I’ve played around with eyebrow powder, but my mother Violet
told me that I had to dial it back a bit. (She didn’t exactly say that I looked
like Frida Kahlo - but it was implied). So the brow lady came to my rescue.
All this is part of my
attempt to look French, and looking French does not happen without some effort.
Instead of looking curious, I have to look confident. Rather than slouch, I
have to stand ramrod straight. And then there’s the scarf, les souliers, the
lipstick, and the attitude. But it’s all worth it –
because nothing makes me happier than being mistaken for a local in Paris.
BONJOUR! |
This time I was determined
not to let that happen. Currently I am in Paris and I’m off to a very
good start. On my first day a young man asked me for directions. (I shrugged
and told him I didn’t live there). I made it to the wine store and found a lovely rosé. And I was even able to go to the Patisserie and
order a baguette.
So on the second day I
thought I’d venture out to a yoga class. I’m staying with my friend Clare, and
she’s instructed me to the way of the locals. As she left for work she gave me
a coffee, a street map, and tickets for the subway.
What I forgot to ask for
were yoga pants, as I hadn’t thought to bring some. I called her at work, and
with her permission, rummaged around in her drawers to find some. Triumphantly,
I grabbed the first pair I saw and ran out the door to the metro. Barely making
it on time, I managed to pay for my class, whip into the changing room and land
on my mat within minutes. (Nothing makes a girl more French than being in a
hurry).
The teacher came into the
room and greeted us politely. I felt like he was smiling mostly at me and to be
honest, I wasn’t surprised. After all, I was wearing the regulation striped
T-shirt, my toes were freshly manicured, and (thanks to Dr H's magic scalpel) I have a flat tummy. All that was
missing was a poodle and a beret.
As the class commenced I
felt other Parisian eyes upon me. Could it be that I was the best in the class?
On the side wall there was a mirror, and as I worked my way though downward dog
glanced at my reflection. My goodness my shirt was cute. But oh-oh. My
underwear was visible through my pants. And they were white, and they were
squishing my bum so that it looked like I was in a rock-climbing harness. There
were buldges everywhere! I hoped that if I stood up straight it wouldn’t be so
obvious.
The next pose was a standing
one, which was slightly better. My yoga pants, (which I found out later which
actually just leggings) weren’t quite as see-through when I was erect. My top
was still adorable, but there was something wrong with my face. In my hurry I
hadn’t brushed on my eyebrows, and two red itchy stripes stared back at me. Mon
Dieu! I didn’t look French at all. I barely looked human! The thing I mostly resembled was a
clown, which explains why people were smiling. The French love clowns almost as
much as mimes, and in my outfit, I was a combination of both.
But being French comes from
within, so with fake confidence I finished the class. After changing into some
non see-through pants, I put on my giant sunglasses, went down to the subway,
and elbowed some tourists out of my way.