Jean-Claude

I just got my hair cut, and while that seems hardly newsworthy, it's the little things like haircuts that remind me just how much we can take communication for granted.

This was my second haircut at chez Jean-Claude. I intend to make myself a regular for two reasons: the haircut is great, and Jean-Claude speaks English to me.

Apparently they remembered me from my last visit (probably the only dumb non-French speaking girl who comes by), because when I walked in Jean-Claude grinned and said "What's up!?" I couldn't help but giggle. I haven't heard a "What's up" in months, and coming from an effeminate French guy it sounded kind of goofy.

To be honest, I don't even know if Jean-Claude is his name. But it's the name on the storefront, and he's the only guy there, so that's what I call him in my mind. And I find it kind of fun-in a silly, snooty way-to be able to say my hairdresser is a "Jean-Claude".

And truthfully, Jean-Claude doesn't even cut my hair. His assistant (who does not speak English) does the work while he dictates from the other side of the shop. She just trims and snips and hums quietly to herself, and I am relieved to not have to make small talk with the hairdresser.

What else I like about chez Jean-Claude is the clientele. Every time I visit, the other customers are senior citizens. I'm used to the shops I frequented back home, where the chattering hairdressers fuss over equally chatty girls who have three different shades of highlights and manicure appointments afterward. I like the company of the older crowd: they always smile politely at me and I love the banter they exchange with Jean-Claude.

Too bad the price isn't as charming, but hey, this is still Paris after all.