She hated getting her haircut especially in France where she was always afraid her bad French would lead to some strange creative urge on the part of the person cutting her hair ending up with something suitable for a Jean Paul Gautier fashion show but not really meant for an aging housewife not wanting stares from other women on the street. She kept her hair a medium length so that if she didn’t make it to a beauty salon for several months, it wasn’t a total disaster. Plus, she could pull it back in a pony tail to keep it out of her face if need be. For a long time, when she first moved to Provence, she saved her haircuts for her times in Paris but she had ended up with a couple of strange haircuts even there in the center of the fashion world. Finally a friend in Provence told her of a man with his own shop and it wasn’t even that far from where she lived.
The first time she went it didn’t turn out to be that bad of an experience and they didn’t even keep her waiting which was often the case in Paris where once as she sat there with wet hair, a lady whose hair was being colored lit up a cigarette. No, she was taken care of right away and the haircut was pretty good too and, to her surprise, it was much cheaper. Everyone in the salon told her that she looked like Shirley Maclane. It must have been her red hair, blue eyes and American accent and it wasn’t the first time she had heard that in France either. So, by the time months had passed, she boldly made the phone call herself to make an appointment. She thought she had the time down right but the French use military time and instead of saying three PM they said 1500. Needless to say, the guy who was to cut her hair wasn’t happy when she came in an hour late and gave her a dirty look. She made another appointment for the next day and got her hair cut but she didn’t like the way the man had cut her bangs, that feathered look. It took weeks for the bangs to grow out before she could cut them straight across. So for this haircut she told him to cut the bangs straight. He wasn’t pleased and, in fact, when he was finished he said it was a nice hair cut and looked good except for the bangs which he said were sh@#ty. She learned a new way to say the s word in French that day.
Months later she was back in Provence doing some serious gardening and also in need of a haircut again. In fact, her hair hadn’t been touched in months and was definitely looking shaggy. She managed to get an appointment on a Saturday morning-none of those pesky military times to work through-and went in to the shop, just seven minutes from her home. When the man was ready to cut her bangs he asked if he could feather them. She had trimmed them herself about a week ago and they were fairly short. She was going to say no when he told her that she would look like Joan of Arc if she didn’t let him. So she said, “Just a little”. This time the bangs looked fine. She was heading back to Paris in two days time wondering how long it would be before she got her hair cut again and if it would be in Provence or Paris.

I am writing this from Provence where Maurice and I are out in the yard every day cutting back weeds, pulling weeds, shaping bushes, planting bulbs-a little of everything. You can find out how out of shape or old you are after a day of yard work. We both are hobbling around like we are much older than we are. Anyway, here is a mixture of some photos taken here and there in Paris when I was there a few weeks ago.

In Notre Dame there is a chapel devoted to the Virgin of Notre Dame. It always has people praying there and there are always many candles lit. I am surprised at how popular the Virgin of Guadaloupe is.

What are you looking at?

There is usually always some interesting art work in the Palais Royal.

There are these golden tips everywhere on fences and gates around the Louvre and the Palais Royal.

A few photos I took of some shop windows a month or so ago, all of them with hues of pink.

Hard to see a pink Eiffel Tower and not know it’s an advertisement for underwear-in this case Chantal Thomass. The redhead reflected in the mirror is my sister.

The sign on the street for the same shop.

I think I may need to go back to this store and buy one of these for my grand daughter.

Hard to beat a cat in a tutu.

In the little visited 13th arrondissement known mostly for its China Town, is an interesting area called Butte aux Cailles. It is mostly a working class environment but is full of some very nice places to eat and it is lovely place in which to stroll around.

The day I was up there (a butte is a hill) they were celebrating the Commune which was an uprising in 1871 by the workers of Paris who were against Napoleon III and then who fought against the invading Prussians and Germans. They lost their battles and as many as 30,000 of the fighters were killed. One of the most fierce battles of that time took place here on Butte aux Cailles. By the way, I looked up the commune on the Internet and read that Karl Marx thought the Commune was a wonderful political happening and based some of his writings and beliefs on what happened in France. I am assuming that the Commune lead to the word Communism?

I think this man was a singer although I never got to hear any music while there. When he saw me taking his photo he happily posed for me.

Another mustached fellow also posed with him.

A nice place up there to have tea and a little dessert. It’s owned by a nice fellow American, Aimee.

Update: Someone was nice enough to send me the information that the man with the mustache who posed for me was Riton La Manivelle and that he does indeed sing - and he also plays a barrel organ. He always plays at the Fête de la Commune. Dang, wish I could have heard him.

I made a quick trip to Switzerland for a few days of baby sitting while my daughter in law went to her sister’s wedding in Texas. The oldest grandson, age six, has started school which is, of course, in full time Italian. It’s difficult for him, of course, but to my untutored ear, his Italian sounds wonderful. The four year old is in a nursery school and says he doesn’t want to speak Italian but then can suddenly come out with all sorts of words. The two year old doesn’t seem to know much but when he says a word it is in perfect dialect. On the Saturday that I was there we went to the lovely city of Lugano to check out the Polenta Festival.

That’s what I call a lot of polenta. I never got to try it though as the lines were too long so settled for some pasta.

Two of my grandsons having a look.

The stunningly beautiful Lake Lugano along side a fantastic park.

Another look at the lake. We had such a beautiful autumn day.

I like this arrangement-would love to have something like it on my dining room table instead of the dusty bunch of lavender sitting there now.

LaFayette, that brave French general who fought in the American Revolution, is buried, along with his wife, at the tiny Picpus Cemetery. Some of her family were beheaded during the French Revolution at nearby Nation and their bodies were brought here where the nuns then buried them. It is one place in Paris where the American Flag is always displayed.

Here is the tomb of LaFayette. There is a ceremony every July 4th here by the French government and the American Ambassador.

A tomb there at the Picpus Cemetery that I like the look of. No one from the guillotine is buried at this one.

A gate there.

A path leading to the cemetery. It is behind a church. In fact, the cemetery itself is hard to find being behind a wall and two tall doors and hiden if you don’t know where to look.