Here Today, Gone Tomorrow - Hair-Raising Tales of Haute Coiffure

History tells us that French women have always been seductive creatures. From Marie Antoinette to Brigitte Bardot, they've always had that certain something that defies definition. Upon arriving in Paris, my mission became to learn their secrets and fully integrate myself into French society, starting by first and foremost nailing the quintessential "Parisian Look". Diving in head-first, it seemed logical that the place to start was with my crowning glory. It was time for a new hairdo.

As I was planning my makeover, I asked one of my French colleagues if she thought I could pass for a native. After giving me the once-over, she replied, "Your 'airs are très Americains." When pressed to explain what was so American about it, she told me that every hair was in place, contrary to most French women's style. And here I thought that was called good grooming. Although, come to think of it, it was true that a lot of women seemed to favor the tousled look, as in I've-just-rolled-out-of-my-afternoon-lover's-bed-and-am-now-on-my-way kind of look. In a word, sexy.

For a girl with a standing date every morning with her blow drier, this was tough to accept. However, I gamely made an appointment at a chic salon near the Trocadero, putting my fate into the hands of a legion of scissor-wielding, French-speaking hairstylists. Through a series of hand gestures and pidgin French, I believed that I managed to convey that I didn't want anything too short or too high-maintenance.

Unfortunately, this was not the case, since my formerly shoulder-length brunette self slunk out of the salon with a tawny double-process chin-grazing bob. However, I was now armed with a new vocabulary: "faire de mèches" means to highlight and "dégrader" means to layer. Feeling rather degraded after my three hours in the salon, I nonetheless chalked it up to experience, confident I'd have better results the next time around.

Somewhat scarred by my previous visit to the hairdresser, I decided to try a new establishment a few months later. This time I was prepared: in my purse was my secret weapon, a detailed diagram of a head complete with arrows pointing at what needed to be done where and instructions in French. "I would like to let my hair grow", I read off my cheat sheet as my stylist ran her fingers through my hair, assessing its texture. "Oh, that's fine," she trilled, "We'll do something really extraordinaire anyway," as she began shearing what was left of my tresses into a neat pixie.

Twenty minutes later, she grabbed my shoulders and whirled me in front of the mirror. With her face next to mine, she breathily concluded that my hair was "très chic, très moderne", clearly pleased with her handiwork. "Mais c'est très SHORT!", I practically shrieked as I unhappily surveyed the massacre. Later that evening, as a friend consoled me over a glass of red wine, we concluded that French hairstylists are like artists: you are a mere canvas and should be pleased that you have been allowed to reach a transcendent state through their art.

After a year or so of harrowing haircuts, I asked a well-coiffed French friend to accompany me to her stylist, not only as moral support but as my personal translator in case anyone got a little scissor-happy. As she introduced me to Frank at the Michel Cathou salon, I felt my fortunes were about to change. "You're not French," I remarked as he began fluffing my hair. In fact, Frank was German, a point I ranked highly in his favor. Although he disagreed with my theory that the French gene produced stylists who are unable to adhere to the customer's desires, he admitted that there were plenty of hairdressers in Paris who simply don't listen.

An hour later, I walked out of the salon feeling lighter than I had in ages. Not only was my hair bouncy and beautiful, it was exactly what I had asked for! Ever since then, no one outside of Michel Cathou has touched a hair on my head. Back to my shoulder-length brunette style, albeit more tousled, I think I've finally discovered one of the secrets of French women: once you've got a great hairdresser, don't give him away for love, money, or Veuve Clicqot.