In Las Vegas – sunglasses at night?
Over the din, we managed to strike up a conversation, and sparks ensued. I met Jean-Pierre at Madame Wong’s in Chinatown, the epicenter of the punk rock scene in the ’80s. It was noisy, crazy, wild…your typical club on a Friday night. I was with a male friend, J-P was with a female friend and, with mutual approval of all parties, we swapped friends, then became inseparable for the remaining week of his American vacation, even driving to Vegas for a couple days. He loved how “California” I was with my curly red hair, turquoise sunglasses, and yellow convertible; I loved how Parisian he was with his charming accent, dropped ‘h’s, and mangled English. He actually pronounced UCLA “yookla” and when I corrected him was shocked, insisting that that’s how all his friends — like him, rabid Americanophiles — pronounce it!
J-P in my 356SC
I immediately got my hair colored and cut...
After he returned to Paris, he called frequently, and a few months later invited me to come for a visit over the Christmas holiday. I was over the moon — I was going to Paree…my first time, and what could be more romantic! I immediately got my hair colored and cut in what I imagined was a chic Parisian style. He warned me that, as it was December, it would be very cold, maybe even snowing, so I packed a couple pairs of leg warmers even though they were on their way out of style, and splurged on a rabbit fur jacket.
Leaving my daughter and mom at the departure gate at LAX was much harder than I expected…lots of tears, and for a moment I wondered what I was doing. But once aboard AirFrance, with an entire row to myself and pampered with a complimentary glass of good wine, some delicious biscuits, comfy slippers, a silky eye mask…it felt like I was in first class even though I wasn’t, and I stretched out and slept through the entire flight.
Très chic, non? I guess non.
And then, there he was! The moment I disembarked I spotted Jean-Pierre’s big smile, then watched as it turned upside down into a frown. A scowl, to be exact, as only the French can scowl. “What did you do?” he asked. Suddenly his accent didn’t sound so charming. “Why did you cut off your hair? You don’t look as fun, not the way I remember you.” Yes, I swear, he said that.
It went from bad to worse. I’ll spare you most of the details, but clearly I was no longer the ideal (read idealized) California girl of his memory and, needless to say, he was no longer the ideal (read idealized) Frenchman of mine. I stayed in the tiny apartment over a pizza parlor he shared with a very stylish girl who wore mini skirts even though it was snowing outside. When I pulled my leg warmers on over my jeans, I thought he might have a stroke — evidently they were hopelessly out of style! We went sight-seeing just once, I vaguely recall peering out the car window at the Eiffel Tower, and I had one delectable dinner at a little family-owned corner bistro. I can taste it to this day…steak au poivre, haricot vert, and perfectly roasted potatoes. But that’s pretty much all I remember. His attitude was so rotten that within a couple days I decided to return home for Christmas, and it cost me dearly — a one-way flight on Christmas Day at the last minute — but it was worth it, and I had one of the happiest Christmases ever.
I had shot one roll of film while in Paris and, wouldn’t you know, somehow it must have fallen out of my luggage, lost and never to be found, at least not by me. I don’t have a single photo from that trip, and that’s just fine with me — the memory of Jean-Pierre is bad enough. And, my husband and I have made our own sweet memories there…though I never found comparable steak au poivre.
Barbara BucklesArtist, writer, storyteller, spy. Okay, not a spy…I was just going for the rhythm.
I call myself “an inveterate dabbler.” (And my husband calls me “an invertebrate babbler.”) I just love to create one way or another. My latest passion is telling true stories live, on stage. Because it scares the hell out of me.
As a memoirist, I focus on the undercurrents. Drawing from memory, diaries, notes, letters and photographs, I never ever lie, but I do claim creative license when fleshing out actual events in order to enhance the literary quality, i.e., what I might have been wearing, what might have been on the table, what season it might have been. By virtue of its genre, memoir also adds a patina of introspection and insight that most probably did not exist in real time.
Loved this story! So well told, and rich with detail. Lessons learned. Sometimes the reality falls far from the pictures—just as well you lost the roll.
Thanks, Khati! As with most (but certainly not all) experiences, the take-away is worth it, even when it’s difficult. And how fun that I got to tell the story here…with the pix to illustrate it. So glad you enjoyed it.
Isn’t it weird how men want us to have long hair? I had to make mine gradually shorter over the years so my husband wouldn’t notice, although once he said, “Didn’t you used to have long hair? I liked it that way.” Thankfully, I was old enough and married enough to tell him those days were gone. BTW, I like how you look in the second photo.
Thanks, Laurie…I think that was the second to the last time I cut my hair short. I’ve just never had the patience for the maintenance required for a short do. But I do wonder what it is about men and long hair when short hair so often looks infinitely better.
Wow, Barb, how shallow this guy was to have fallen for the head of hair, rather than lovely YOU! You look great in both photos, but one can’t know what goes on in another’s head. The food sounds delicious (particularly to this pandemic-starved soul), but sorry for the whole experience. Glad you and your wonderful hubby have made your own sweet memories of Paris to overcome the sour taste from that experience.
Thanks, Betsy! In retrospect (ahem), I don’t regret the experience…it was the perfect story for this prompt!
Laurie and Betsy beat me to it in their comments, Barb, but your story perfectly encapsulates the obsession men have over women’s long hair. And, yes, it is completely shallow. That said, I must acknowledge, on behalf of my entire shallow gender, that it is a real thing, even if I am not particularly proud of it. And, of course, particularly ironic given that men’s hair not only is typically shorter but far more prone to falling out entirely. And we can’t all look like Stanley Tucci.
Thank you for sharing your nicely told story, as much as it also shames me a bit, and, of course, I am so glad that it had a happy ending for you that Christmas. And here’s a big FU to J-P!
LOL, John! Stanley Tucci does indeed rock the bald pate. And here’s to that FU to J-P…thanks!
Let’s face it–men are shallow. The world would be a much better place if women were in charge. How many wars would we have? None.
Yes, we do love long hair. But that is hardly a complete catalog of our shortcomings.
Well, broad generalizations aside, Michael, you raise some interesting points. The good news is that power is being redistributed, maybe not fast enough but at least we can actually see it happening in real time. Certainly not too little too late…there’s hope for all of us! And full disclosure: I love long hair on men. As my husband will readily testify.
Au revoir et bon debarras, Jean-Pierre!
LOL, Dee…had to look it up: Good riddance, or don’t let the door hit you on the way out! High five!
Great story, beautifully told and illustrated! How sad that you had to cut short your Parisian adventure, but sounds like it was definitely the right thing to do. I love how you look in both photos, but it IS dramatically different, so I can understand J-P’s surprise, although that didn’t justify his poor treatment of you. (I’d love to hear the details you said you were sparing us.)
This really was the perfect story for this prompt.
LOL, Suzy…those details are rather hilarious but I wouldn’t put them in writing! Girl talk 🙂
I have always been a fan of the gamine look; think Audrey Hepburn all the way to Audrey Tautou. I think J-P’s problem was that he was fixated on the unfamiliar; with short hair you looked too French for him. Silly boy….
Not that I am immune to that siren song. Back in college my GF (yes, THAT one!) with normally short bobbed hair, showed up one day with a long black wig. It drove me…rather crazy. She was actually miffed when, later on, I specifically asked her to wear it to our next assignation!
Love both of those Audreys. And ah, yes, the lure of the unfamiliar…you were brave to ask for a reprise, but her reaction doesn’t surprise me.
A terrific “haircut” story. I loved the detail about the steak au poivre–that all these years later, in spite of the horrendous experience, you could still fondly recall that meal! I was thinking as I arrived to the end of the piece that, yes, that was what I would comment on. And then you brought it back for your great final line, bringing the unhappy narrative to a wonderful and whimsical end.
p.s. Did that roommate in the miniskirt have anything to do with his loss of interest in the California girl? Surely it wasn’t just the hair style?
Ya know, Dale, I wondered about that. Maybe he was interested in her — why wouldn’t he be — but maybe she wasn’t interested in him. And maybe I was being used to make her jealous. We’ll never know. Unless he reads Retrospect. And comes forward. In which case I’m in big trouble. Uh-oh, I guess I should have given him a pseudonym!
Glad you appreciated my “bookends.”
I love how the haircut theme starts out the story and admire how you made something out of this Parisian misadventure, Barb. When I went to Paris in January of 1974 I had the good fortune to have a rabbit coat, which was warm and in style. My French was pretty good and although I didn’t pass for a native, people thought I was from eastern Europe, and I had a good time. Alas, how shallow are men. They do like our hair long, but mine is so thin and scraggly now that I must cut it. Ah, well, men always liked me on the blonder side, so now that I’m platinum gray, it’s cool.
And of course it’s how you like it that really counts, and platinum gray is gorgeous.
I’m an outlier, Barbara. I prefer shorter hairstyles. Always have. And I echo John’s pithy comment about J-P. Truth be told, though, I almost didn’t get by the picture of your 356SC. All time classic car.
Thanks for noticing the car, Tom…it was a beaut, wish I still had it!
And let me echo Tom right back (echo echo?): that was one beautiful car!
It was…and if I could, I’d get another one today!