My street cred: That time I got into a fight with a French door

So this one time, I was on a business trip in France.

(Let us take a few seconds to appreciate how cool that sounds. It is even cooler when compared to my previous business trip exotic desinations such as Archbold, Ohio and Edmonton, Alberta.)

During this trip, I managed to take time off one weekend to explore the city of Lyon. And following my fairy godmother’s advice on how best to spend my money when in Europe, I decided to get a haircut.

At some random, inevitably beautiful plaza, I saw a fancy hairdressing salon; I waltzed in, and with my best French, I requested: “Rendez-moi belle, SVP.”

Chopity chop chop chop later, and voilà! Significantly less hair. Le short.

Feeling as though I had regained my youth and my flirt, I proceeded with my walkabout, and found myself in a shopping district full of upscale boutique stores. Picking one at random, I walked in, and found to my dismay that everything cost way too much, was beige and eye-wateringly overpriced. I decided to exit this unworthy store, but I wanted to make sure that I didn’t appear to be leaving because I couldn’t afford any of the merchandise: I was leaving the store because I was French, chic and unimpressed. With my fabulous new haircut, I was confident in my ability to pull off such an authentic look. I underestimated the amount of concentration this new persona would require.

As I approached the exit, with my nose held high in the air (that is French behaviour, n’est-ce pas?), I did not notice that the store’s door was made of clear glass, and that I could not see its edge, and so, I energetically opened the glass door into my nose.

Which provoked an equally energetic nose bleed, all over the swanky store’s white floor.

As I tried to catch the rainfall of blood drops, crying from the pain, laughing hysterically, and swearing like an English sailor, I realised my cover was irretrievably blown.

I fled outside, leaving the disgusted saleswoman to wipe up the puddle of bright red blood , to continue my hemorrhage on the sidewalk. Less conspicuous.

As the French would say: “Zut alors!!”

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