Six months of French living: goodbyes don’t get easier and the psychology behind the French girl haircut.
Tomorrow we will surpass the six month milestone of living in France, and have just shared yet another round of ‘bon voyage et à bientôt’ beneath the backdrop of the magnificent and breathtaking French Alps with the people we have been so lucky to meet here. In this six month span I have now shared many goodbye hugs and given my best wishes to multiple strangers who quickly became familiar friends as we have together navigated the weeks turned into months of living in this unbelievably charming mountain town. From lunches on the docks along the lake lounging under the sun, to grammar debates turned inside jokes in language class, the many “Santé” always with eye-contact, running carpool through the city to drive to the ski mountain every weekend, and the lengthy discussions of les hauts et les bas of life in general while promenading around the lake. The sentiment that has routinely become an expected experience for us - yet, nonetheless, persists with a sadness that I feel achingly in my soul with each goodbye - has not come any easier. As we have fallen into nice routines with new pals from around the world and the good times roll on with ease until the dreaded final week creeps up again - reminding us once more that this journey is ultimately an isolating one. We, on our own journey, and they - on theirs, and I do hope that one day our paths will cross again.
After half a year of living in France ( which - half a year… wow! ) I feel as though the way I move and exist as a living being in this world has transformed on a deeply cellular level. I have never before been so incredibly content and at total ease to sit and simply look - feeling no need to fidget and fret, but simply just be. I guess the magic of France has indeed done its job on me. In my life prior, I would quickly grow restless with the advent of doing nothing - always reminding myself that it was time to get back at it, back to the grind, back to reality. Now, that nothing feels comfortable and normal, and it is a reality here. Do you remember the last time you stopped to smell the flowers? Because I have never before witnessed the sight of so many individuals who stop themselves mid-step and turn to the flowers and press their noses right up to the flowering bud. But it is not just roses - it’s the lilacs, the cherry blossoms, the anemone, the flowers that I don’t even know what they are because also never before have I witnessed such an endless assortment of flowers that happen to bloom all at once. Spring was once a season that I wasn’t super into - but here have quickly grown to adore, maybe even love it - the most...! During the peak of the lilac bloom I clipped two bunches from the tree in my garden and displayed them on my kitchen table, they are so lovely.
Scenes from my little French kitchen.
A vibrant blanket of green now sweeps across the valleys right up to the snow line. Last weekend we sat on top a grassy col in the mountains above a refuge and a flowering meadow of yellow flowers and listened to the distinctive ‘cuc-koo’ calls of the cuckoo bird - the one that sounds exactly like the cuckoo clock. I guess in the Alps the arrival of this particular bird signals the commencement of spring, much like the anticipated arrival of the meadowlark in Montana. Before this moment with the cuckoo bird we had walked right up on a pair of Ibex enjoying the buffet of green grass below a waterfall, and afterwards we hiked up above the col and sat on the mountainside as the Alpine swifts gave us a proper air show. Spring in the Alps is nothing short of magnificent - so much so that every single day one of us says to the other “life is sooo good here”, because it really truly is.
A pretty sweet spot for nature’s air show! The Alpine Swift is one of the fastest birds on the planet, I am almost certain. They winter in Africa, but have arrived in the Alps alongside the cuckoo bird for the spring and summer months.
A spring weekend color palette in the French Alps.
An amazing moment with the two Ibex!
Annecy has proved to be one of the most dynamically interesting places in the entire world - as a simple drive around the lake can feel as if you’ve traveled through dozens of unique climates and destinations within only a handful of minutes. One moment it feels as though you’re winding along the back roads of Hawaii, only to corner a sharp switchback and be transported into the dense oceanside jungle of Thailand. Vertical cliffs jut out from dense green forests, paragliders suspended above, turquoise waters below. During the rainy days when the clouds form low, drifting slowly across the foothills above the lake, it feels as though you are living a postcard moment directly out of a quaint harbor situated in a remote corner of Vancouver Island, BC - just holding my breath for an Orca to breech itself at any moment. When the alpine sun comes out in strength, which has been most days lately - the water shimmers in ranges from deep indigo to bright aqua like the Bahamas. If you told me there were coral reefs in the lake, I would surely believe it. But I do know there are shipwrecks that you can go scuba dive! From the high alpine still in the clutches of winter all the way down to the villages dotted across the valley’s - the landscape is bursting with color, texture and sweet smells - from the warm chocolate pastries and fresh baguettes n the boulangeries to the plentiful bunches of flowers spilling out of properly patina’d wooden window boxes, sprawling from the crevices in between stone walls, and draping themselves over mossy wrought iron gates - I am not sure that my senses have ever had to process so much beauty and sweetness all in the same moment.
Early April in the nearby beach village of Veyrier-du-Lac.
As our days spent in France accumulate we also continue to experience immense beauty from humanity on a daily basis as each departure from our apartment in the morning promises a new adventure. Like how the adorable little French tots love to call out “bonjour chien” or “coucou chien” as they pedal past our dog. C’est trop mignon! Not only have I lost count of the ways in which people style beret’s with absolute ease here - a friend specifically recalling one moment where she observed an old man dawning a beret that looked as if decades of mountain sunshine had properly melded it to his head. Which I thought was such a beautiful description, but with the changing of seasons there is an arrival of some seriously tailored linen suits and straw hats with immaculate attention to detail. One man I recall in particular on a sunny & breezy afternoon walked past us in a brown linen suit and straw Panama hat that was fitted so perfectly to his head that not a gust of wind could displace it even by a millimeter. They do indeed know a thing or two about getting dressed here. Other notable sightings as of late include the various methods in which men carry home bouquets of flowers. Including: cycling with them tucked under the arm, strapped into backpacks, perfectly balanced in a wicker basket and shielded under a poncho in the rain, and of course running with them in hand while wearing running clothing because it’s Annecy and this town is obsessed with running. But bouquets of flowers aren’t the only thing being frequently transported around town through these methods. Other popular items include baguettes, bottles of wine, and of course - dogs. My favorite regular occurrence being the grey corgi with the long tail who happily rides the bike in a backpack on their owners back, each of its four paws poking out of little foot holes.
I know for a fact that I have never before caught the corners of my mouth turning upwards into a smile so often over moments where I witness someone else experiencing something. But here, it is a frequent occurrence. One Saturday afternoon departing La Clusaz in the car after a day of skiing we passed by a scene at a gorgeous old alpine style home situated in the lush green hills of the Aravis mountains, where it had appeared that a group of friends had picked up the dining table arrangement from indoors and walked it out to the driveway where they plopped it down in a sun-drenched spot to share wine and food together, as the French so famously do. Their laughs echoed and their glasses chinked, and I felt a slight envy that I was not a part of it. Last week, I peered up from my garden work and took notice to an elderly woman across the street with her elbows propped up on the balcony as she stood and soaked in the absolutely perfect weather. Minutes passed before she stood, stretched, and carried on with her day. She reminded me the importance of taking in the moments, a practice so effortlessly embedded into daily life here. On a particularly pleasant afternoon when the clouds cleared and the sun returned after a couple days of heavy rainfall I saw my neighbor in her garden light a cigarette, turn her face directly up at the sun, and take a loooong drag. I felt the fatigue and stress leave my body right alongside hers - and I think it was after that moment that I began to truly understand what life here is really about. In the short time as residents of the Haute-Savoie department we’ve managed to make some French friends of our own now, and it feels like a really special embrace to be invited into their culture. The nights spent out for drinks or over at their home for dinner carry on past midnight without a thought to even look at a clock - a notion that I have not felt in an extremely long time. To socialize with ease past midnight is hardly ever in the cards for me, but something about the conversations we have here makes it rather easy to not stop. Concluding the soiree with a promise to hang out again sometime in the near future, which I knew were genuine intents, as we walked out into the damp cold night lit by amber-colored street lamps.
Most days here we don’t look at clocks, one reason being because we actually don’t have a single appliance that shows the time in our home - which is a pretty wild fact considering that I can count a minimum of at least seven screens that gave the time back in our old home in Montana. Not only do we hear the bell towers from our home through the open windows but the general need to know time here just exists much less. Days flow easy, the populous as a whole follows a similar routine and nothing anywhere ever feels rushed. For the last couple of weeks the first roses have bloomed in our garden, and while I was never the biggest fan of roses before - something about a bountiful rose bush in a tranquil garden in France is so fairytale perfect. It was only fitting that one day while the sun was bright, the weather so beautiful, and the roses were so perfectly pink, a man walked down our rue singing “La Vie En Rose” in beautiful harmony at the top of his lungs. It felt like a scene directly out of a movie, and of course - so very French. I have found myself even humming and sending that particular melody whenever I observe a scene so beautiful and perfect. As it is also true that the French people love to walk, even cycle around and sing and whistle to themselves while doing it - people are genuinely so happy and I absolutely can’t get enough of it.
I once had a big beautiful garden back in Montana that I loved to death but the HOA of the nieghborhood had waged a war against me that I eventually lost. Last summer I stood at the window and watched the tractor erase all evidence of my hours upon hours of hard work that I dedicated to that dirt, and I vowed to myself that my next home would have a garden that would actually be appreciated. Now, I have a French garden and while I trim back the shrubs and refill the bird feeders my neighbor jolts me out of the depths of my thoughts (which are mostly ruminating over French grammar) as she calls “bonjour!” to me from outside the gate. I look up and call back “bonjour!” and every time after a few short phrases exchanged, she always is sure to tell me “le jardin, c’est magnifique!” Before she goes on with her day. And each time I thank her greatly and smile, knowing that my hard work is indeed appreciated by others here. Yesterday, I completed my gardening work for the season - which before we moved in the garden had been left quite unloved for a couple of years. Now, it feels restored to a beautiful and thoughtful presence with some new additions like a small patch of perennial alpine lupine, a section for a perennial/annual mix of wildflower and double click cosmos and of course a lavender patch with several thyme that will spread with purple flowers and some coneflower + zinnia combos for good texture/color measure. The three rose bushes that each dawn different shades from pink to red to dark red have been properly trellised and the Japanese roses that were previously lost to the tangle of weeds below the hibiscus have been given a prominent spotlight as they just now begin to sprout tiny pink buds. Over my recent days spent planting and weeding several folks passing by have stopped and given me a major “Bravo” for my hard work. It is evident that not only do the French appreciate a good garden, but they also appreciate the hard work that goes into it. This morning as it lightly rained while sipping my coffee I watched a couple promenade along the garden fence munching on a croissant and looking over my garden. I feel very content and at home here in a culture where people not only take notice, but sincerely appreciate. Which reminds me of another moment from earlier this winter, when I discovered that we not only have crocus and tulips, but some really gorgeous hyacinth - as an elderly woman also discovered it when walking past the garden one crisp cold sunny morning when she suddenly stopped and threw her hands up to her cheeks with a passionate “OH!” and it was the group of freshly bloomed violet hyacinths she was looking at. Simply magnifique.
Garden situation before.
A blurry angle of my petit French jardin in progress.
And the completed project as seen this weekend!
For living in such close proximity to the downtown, we sure have a quiet neighborhood. Each day, we listen to the birds sing beautiful melodies from early in the morning to late in the evening - and they sing some of the most melodic bird songs that I have ever heard. I have grown to love the sounds of our French apartment life. Like when the metal shutters clap in the wind during the onset of a thunderstorm, or when the bell towers toll at noon on Sunday through our half open windows. The beauty is truly endless, and the lifestyle sure does rhyme right along with it in perfect unison.
The transition from winter to spring was an easy and effortless one, the daily temperature range is so mild compared to the 40+ degree swings we experienced in Montana on a daily basis. We have no high winds, no hail, no ice build up. Instead, we have peaceful rain and clouds that give way to brilliant blue skies and sunshine that invites. Spring skiing in the Alps was one of my favorite skiing experiences yet. People here worship the arrival of the warm sun, and that is made evident by the incredible tans of the ski instructors - who are out on the mountain skiing with no hat, no helmet, and only a too cool pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses style game here is so strong, and I, myself, have been evolving to get on board with it.
In April I received my first proper French girl haircut - something I had been highly anticipating since my arrival here. After a couple weeks of research I selected the salon and booked for four weeks out. In that time waiting for my appointment I did my research, as I was already aware that the approach to hair here as a whole is just psychologically different. But why? I kept searching but the day the appointment arrived, I was delivered my answers. With a disclaimer that I had always adored every haircut I ever received in the past in the States - but I cannot deny that there is something objectively very different about getting a haircut in France. It’s a combination of things - from the minimal use of product, to the mindset, to styling the hair with nothing but a singular round brush and a blow dryer. There was no curling iron or hot styling tools in sight yet she achieved the greatest naturally undone tousled curls look my head of hair has EVER witnessed. I asked her a couple pointed questions about general hair care and hair styling techniques which allowed me to further solidify my theory that the French don’t even know they are so cool, they just simply are - which therein makes them even cooler. This attitude flows into other aspects of life as well, including the way people get dressed here. After a few months of having to put more effort into getting dressed than I have in a long time (before I lived in Montana even), it has actually somehow become easier, and it now feels - dare I say, effortless? Is it that French magic… one again?
My stylist had at one point spent some time in the States briefly cutting hair which she described as most girls hair was long, boring, and lifeless. These people and their honestly, ohhh do I love it! As I walk around town, I am always taking notice to everyone’s hair, from men to women and kids - I’ve written about this before - but I am always shocked at the variety of cuts that exist and how each style appears to align with the individual so perfectly. The emphasis on personalized hair in French is only fully backed by the fact that you can find a coiffeur on almost every corner and the haircuts are very affordable - I paid 75 euros for the best haircut of my life, and it is quite apparent that people here visit their coiffeur more frequently than my usual once a year cut. So, I suppose I will too now! At the conclusion of my haircut my stylist exclaimed “well it looks like you better go out to dinner tonight!” and she was right, so that’s what we did. And that evening walking in the rain arm in arm with my husband en route to get sushi there was something different in the way that I walked. I wore that hair for three days after the cut, & with each day the texture grew to be progressively more amazing.
In contrast though, lately I have been cutting my husband’s hair at home! So far I have given him three cuts since he’s got a pretty full head of thick hair that grows quite rapidly. We call the cut a ‘refined modern mullet’ which are all kind of different but ultimately the same - mostly because as it turns out I am not the best at cutting hair, and also don’t really enjoy it. He usually feeds me some wine in advance of the event which does make it slightly more fun - but ultimately it’s a pretty funny way to spend an hour together (as if we don’t already get enough time together as of late!). But, life continues to roll on here - weeks turning into months, which therein become large life milestones together - and things finally feel very settled and consistent. For me, it is the most consistency I have had in years, I even wake up somewhere around 6am now which hardly ever occurred back in Montana due to the highly inconsistent travel schedule I had. This is also the least I have ever traveled in a six month span - being that the farthest I have gone within these last six months has been the hour and some change drive to Chamonix a few times now. Before, I would find myself on an airplane with my camera bag crammed in-between my legs traversing the North American continent every few weeks. The change is so welcomed, and I feel renewed because of it. Our grand plan of ‘permanent relocation to France’ continues to come together petit à petit. In September, we both will return to University, but French University, me for a secondary Bachelor’s degree this time for softgood design & product development (for the outdoor industry), Casey for a Master’s in marketing & communications (for the outdoor industry). The wild idea we dreamt up, all falling into place with calculated risk and careful planning. I’m also studying for the DELF B1 exam, and we continue to progress our French levels, I think, quite rapidly.
Photo with Casey sometime after I gave him his first haircut and before mine! Unintentionally matching, per usual.
Last month I shared a short lo-fi style Youtube video about March in the French Alps - if you feel so obliged, you can check that out below. It’s only six minutes!
A question to put out for discussion - at what point do you begin to call yourself bilingual?! While I am surely NO seasoned professional at speaking French, I can pull my headphones out and have a totally chill discussion with my neighbor about him losing the keys to his garden gate or go to the bank and convey that the ATM ate my debit card for the second time because I entered the wrong security code, AGAIN. But then of course, I go to the boulangerie later and absolutely fumble over my words, also - again. Oh French, you beautiful but wildly complicated beast of a language. I do unfortunately love you. Maybe when I respond with “oh là là” for the first time in a natural sense without having to think about it first? Or is that just becoming French on a more cultural level? Aucune idée! Let me know what you think in the comments below.
Snow in the mountains, green grass in the valley’s - a photo captured by my husband nearing the end of our first ski season at LCZ, April 2026.
Merci bien for your readership here - bonne journée and see you next time!
