It's ironic how it finally happened. After so much research, so much thinking and weighing the options, it all came down to a really quick phone call and a gut feeling.

One of my supposed criterion for selecting a hair salon in Paris was to go with one that had a stylist that spoke English. Ha, the traveling hair gods had other plans! I called Ivan Beachemin at Sacha Coiffeurs on rue du Cherche-Midi, Paris 6th arr., (the middle of the road salon) and asked in horrible French: "Bonjour, Parlez-vous Anglais?" I'm not sure what he said after that, because he did not speak English, but I picked up enough to somehow make an appointment with Nadine at 4 o'clock! What? No one speaks English there. My French is worse by the day. What have I done?

But I gathered myself, (or so I thought leaving my camera behind - thank God for iPhones) and headed over to their shop armed with a Google Translate written paragraph about what I was looking for. I am thinking the entire way over, "Please let Google be correct and not have me asking for a Sinead O'Connor look."

I was offered tea upon arriving. That I understood. Then ushered back to the consultation and coloring room. Tea cup clinking in my shaking hands, the consultation began. After lots of gesticulating and ouis and nons and d'accords, and reading and rereading my note, my stylist, Nadine and colorist Ana said, Bon! Oh Lord, I'm thinking, please let it be bon!

First Ana went behind closed doors and mixed my color...if you've ever had your hair colored you know the color of the dye in the bowl is no where close to what color your hair ends up being, so I was truly hoping they weren't going purple!

Then it was over to the shampoo room. Now, I learned a French shampoo is a head massage with bubbles. Oh my goodness, she rinsed the dye with the best head massage I had ever received, then shampooed my hair twice, each with a gentle massage that covered my neck and forehead and temples and then conditioned my hair with a soft fingertip rubdown over my entire scalp.

Then I was escorted, or rather floated to Nadine's chair. I looked at my hair and was relieved to see they had indeed gone with dark brown and not purple. Nadine picked up her scissors and started clipping. I though the spirit of Edward Scissor-hands had entered her body. Hair and scissors and combs were flying. In less than 20 minutes, the cut was done. "C'est bon," she asked. It's good? I was still a little stunned, but was able to squeak, "Oui, c'est bon."

When I arrived back at the apartment, Mom said she loved it. That had to be good, right? But she's my mom, what was she going to say? I thought back over the worry and the anxiety and literally hours of research and thought I put into the whole experience and wondered what I was so nervous about.  Two hours of doting, who wouldn't love that?

At dinner, mom picked up the camera and took this shot. Handing the camera to show me, she asked, "How can you not love your new 'do. You look stunning." Oh, I love my mom!