Saturday, November 15, 2008
I have a little confession to make. I don’t wash my hair.
OK, just to clarify, I haven’t gone totally Frenchy. I do bathe once, if not twice, a day. And when I lived in the States, I absolutely had to wash, condition, and blow-dry my hair on a daily basis, come hell or high water. So what happened to this former Breck girl?
It’s simple. Kids.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not too keen on getting up at 5:30 a.m. before the morning madness begins just to make sure I have squeaky-clean cheveux. Anyway, given Paris’ cold, humid winters, it’s inevitable that my hair will end up in a fuzzy aura around my face as soon as I walk out the door. In fact, there’s no better frizz fighter than a little French grime. I’ve discovered that the longer I go between washes, the smoother my hair looks.
For all you moms who cut corners like me, I can assure you that Paris’ top hairdressers agree there is such a thing as too-clean hair. Sometime around 2000 B.C. (Before Children) I actually prepped to get a trim at my fancy-schmancy salon. I’d been submerged at work and hadn’t washed my hair in ages. I was terrified to show up with nasty hair and two-month-old roots, so I grabbed a box of L’Oréal and made a beeline for the shower.
When Frank, my fab stylist, examined my tresses, he was totally confused. “Mais vos cheveux sont tellement propres,” he said with a disgusted grimace.
Leave it to the French to turn clean into a dirty word.