Joyeux anniversaire, to me

The 5th of June is my birthday. Legend has it that many years ago, in the heart of the Paris city-land, a Mercedez being driven by a young strapping South African air force man, was being weaved in and out of corners in the Paris rush hour traffic, to make it to the American Hospital of Paris on time.. for fear of his new gosling being born in the rear seat. Make it to the Quack on time, he did, and just in the nick of it too, for a couple of minutes later, a beautiful new freshly laid gosling emerged into the world.

This year, I find myself in the City of Love, again, for the first time since that event. And there's a sort of melancholic feeling that flows over my tail feathers as I long to be able to share this day with my mom and dad who so bravely fought their way through the chaos that is Paris at 5pm. I make a mental decision to turn this day positive, and plan a jampacked schedule of fun things to do and see.

Main treat for myself, on my day, is a visit to a Parisian hair salon, for a bit of pampering.
First thing that strikes me a bit as strange, is that I'm told to just arrive. "We dont make appointments, madam, you arrive and if there's someone else, you wait". All good. So I arrive at 8:50, just before they open.
There are already 3 people ahead of me.

Each customer is selected consecutively, so there's none of this "I'm with Louis" business, or "My appointment is with Cher... not Yvonne.. thank you. What.... Cher has left? Ok. Cancel my appointment!" rubbish.
There are no "washing" girls, or "the girls that sweep up the hair"... the responsibility is shaired by all working there, and there's a hubb of noise and chatter and excitement. You resign to all preconceptions, and simply let the masters work.
This is where Haute Couture, and Paris Fashion Week lies, so naturally - one does not argue with their stylist.
However, I am quite surprised when I say "Do what you think will work.... " to which the reply is "no... I do what you want, and then I make it better".

The stylist insists on having the mandatory conversation while doing my hair, but this time its all in french. I'm surprised by my ability - and only stumble with a couple of "Je ne comprends tout a faite" a couple of times.
I enjoy watching the crowd, in the moments of quiet - especially the different stylists. I slowly start to recognise the regular characters one finds in a hair salon.. the drama doll, the queen, le Chef Madame, and then the others that just go about their work, singing occasionally to the music on the radio, and chattering amongst themselves.
All dressed in black, the stylists here bring Haute Couture into the salon. My stylist is dressed rather simply in a cotton dress with loose fitting cotton trousers, and greek sandals, whilie Le Chef Madame wears her spectacles on the edge of her nose, and as she puts the finishing touches to a perm on a 60+ parisian dame, she sets each curl into its place with the greatest precision and care... while the other hand hangs in mid air... waiting for the final touch... the cadenza... that will finish this masterful work of art.

Another young stylist walks in slightly lates and greets everyone - she's wearing a black leather zip up dress, displaying the butterfly tattoos the front of her left shoulder, and matching black stilleto heels. She doesnt seem in the least bit worried that her mascara is thicker on the one eye, than the other... or that she has two different earring studs in... this is glam... and she has it.

The results of my coiffure are fabulous. And exactly the picture I had in my mind - through my mumble jumble of french explications, my stylist has somehow managed to understand exactly what I was looking for... and has delivered, with top marks.

I walk out of the salon... feeling about 10 feet taller than everyone else. The warmth of the neon sign above my head that reads "I am fabulous!!" couldnt be any hotter.
The only thing that tops this is when I walk outside, and get a wink from an old man sitting on the bench.

Paris.... Je t'aime.