I Should Have Used Butter While Getting My Hair Cut

Turns out that olive oil and Brussels sprouts is a bad combination. Unbelievably bad, really. I thought it would be a bit healthier than butter and give the flavor a little boost, but it was just wrong.



Time for some audience participation, and maybe the chance for me to avoid another hideous kitchen incident like this. Have you ever tried something that really seemed like it should work, but really didn't?



In other news, I officially love getting my hair cut. Okay, every once in a while it doesn't quite work out, but I'm usually happy with how it looks after. And I think I could spend a good portion of my day just getting it washed. It puts me in such a good mood, I even talked to the girl cutting it today.

That may not sound strange, but my conversational French is... well, enough to stop most conversations. And I haven't found many of the girls at the place I go who speak English. So, I usually just kind of keep quiet, say "oui, c'est bon" when they look hopeful and ask me something, and "non, je ne pense pas" when they look doubtful and ask me something. It usually pans out okay.

So while I was getting my hair washed today, the girl asked me something I didn't understand. Plus, I was facing away from her, so I couldn't tell which response to use. Time to 'fess up.

"Desolé," I said, "j'ai pas compris; je ne parle pas tres bien français". And that's a pretty hefty understatement, even for me.

She seemed okay with that, and things continued without me either getting scalded, dyed crazy-German-lady red (a very special color not found anywhere in nature, but which, it seems, goes very well with cropped hair, glasses with a string hanging from them, and dangly earrings), or shaved bald. Hooray! That's my entire hair-cutting check-list. Mission accomplished. Almost.

"Qu'est ce que votre langue maternelle?" she asked.

"Anglais" I said. I figured that about explained it. She shrugged, and continued.

Turns out she didn't figure her French was very good either. She was Spanish, and also spoke Portuguese (she had lived for a while in Brazil, and maybe Portugal... I mean maybe I'm-not-sure, not maybe she-didn't-know).

Why is it that no one takes me seriously when I say my French is bad? My colleagues are under the amusing (and somewhat dangerous) impression that I understand everything they say, no matter what I tell them. And when things go horribly wrong - as they are bound to do when you combine banks, software, lunch and a language I don't speak - they seem to believe I'm just playing a joke on them.

"Don't worry," they tell new people who are just meeting me. "He understands everything."

"No," I say, "I actually don't. I didn't even understand your name."

And then they all laugh. It's really fun.

Anyways, she went on (in French) to tell me about, I think, much of the last 10 years or so of her life, what it was like to live in Brazil, what the pronunciation differences are between Spanish and Portuguese (hello! I'm the one who's still stuck on French, remember? I need two more languages in the mix like I need a bigger forehead), and how English people never learn French. Even the ones who live here. Not much I can come back with on that front, is there? I just agreed.

Except when she looked concerned.

In any case, it was a pretty good cut, and she was kind enough to rinse it after, which keeps me from feeling itchy (or looking really, really bad in my black shirt - and not the kind of bad that means "cool", either, just the way your grandparents mean it).

I think I'll go back. I just need to learn to say "what kinds of snacks do they have in Brazil, and do you have any with you?" first.