I got a haircut in Paris, and it was a trying experience for me.
I know what you’re thinking: “We get it. You’re an average college student in a different country, and you don’t speak the language too well. This is no longer funny.”
To which I say: Perhaps, but I’m resisting the urge to call this “Haircutgate” since I already used my one free “-gate” joke to refer to the laundry machine, so be happy with that and stop complaining.
Now, it’s important to note that getting a haircut in any country is difficult for me. It takes me ages to work up the courage to say goodbye to the flow in a consistent pattern I’ve observed empirically over the past five years.
For your comprehension, here’s a guide.
Notes on the Chris Lisinski Haircut Cycle
Day 1 (The Realization): Subject stops suddenly when passing mirror in the hallway. Blood rushes to cheeks and heart rate/blood pressure increase. Pained looks while touching hair indicate that subject is unhappy with the length of his ‘do.’
Day 4 (Denial): Subject claims repeatedly that he actually likes hair this long. After all, he has always wanted to start a punk-rock band; now he’s got the look. If only it were socially acceptable to carry around a guitar at all times.
Day 5 (Awareness): Subject concludes that aspiring for a “punk-rock look” is, in fact, the least “punk-rock” thing to do.
Day 8 (Hypothesizing): Subject wonders how others in his peer group can pull off long hair. He decides that this awkward length of hair is just a phase, akin to puberty, and that sartorial maturity requires patience.
Day 10 (Rebuttal): Subject decides he is not biologically built to sport long hair and resolves to have it all cut off.
Day 14 (Procrastination): Subject realizes he still has not trimmed hair and, having spent more time playing Nintendo than learning valuable self-sufficiency, does not know how to do it himself.
Day 16 (Cutting Day): Subject enters barbershop. He immediately turns around and walks out, paces around the block for 15 minutes, then returns and hopes no one noticed. An attempt at communication leads to hair being ceremoniously shaved off.
Day 17 (The Morning After): Subject regrets the loss of hair, innocence and punk-rock street cred.
Day 21 (Stockholm Syndrome): Subject officially enjoys shorter hair and the clean-cut, sharp style.
Day 54 ([D]Evolution): Subject officially enjoys longer hair and the effortless, “I-don’t-care” charm. Resolves never to get a “white-bread corporate America” haircut again.
Day 77 (Rebirth): Subject stops suddenly when passing mirror in the hallway. The cycle begins anew.
Unsurprisingly, this time in Paris, I talked about getting my hair cut for about two weeks before I finally went through with it. I felt all of the usual trepidations, but also a new fear: Would I even be able to communicate with the stylist?
One afternoon, after a confidence-boosting 30-minute French conversation with my host, I swaggered over to the local coiffure shop, high on the adrenaline rush of communicating in a language that wasn’t my maiden tongue.
“Hello. I am here would like please a cut to the my hair. Is okay?” I asked with a beaming smile of self-assuredness.
The barber stopped and sized me up for a brief moment, and then pointed to the chair.
“I would like a cut to the my hair. Is like this, but a little more shorter. Please. Sorry for because my French are no good.”
The rest of my experience passed with no conversation between the barber and me, I assume because he did not think I could speak any French. Admittedly, this silence-from-necessity was less awkward than when I get my hair cut at home and have no idea what to talk about.
But the barbershop was nowhere near silent. The man cutting my hair was engaged in a four-way conversation with another stylist and two patrons about soccer — a subject about which I consider myself fairly fluent. I almost interjected when one remarked about the gazelle-like nature of a certain Chelsea goalkeeper, but shyness stayed my tongue.
And now, as I sit here writing, I feel something I have not felt much of in my time here in Paris: regret. I genuinely regret not making more of an effort to communicate with the barber, both because I think I missed some universal social law and also because I spurned a chance to put myself out there and grow from it.
I know I have improved in many ways since I arrived and that I have indeed grown more courageous, but that progress fell into hiding when I had a chance to test it. It seems for every handful of small victories, there must always be a small failure to prevent overconfidence.
So, perhaps I will force myself to interact in French with a new person this week to make up for my spurned opportunity.
At the very least, I don’t have to worry about my rockstar aesthetic for a few months.
