Faking it.

Meg Ryan rocked it. 32% of Cosmo Readers admit to it. Interestingly, 12% of Esquire readers are doing it. And so do I . Just not in french, I've discovered.

Faking it is convincing your teacher, (preferably male) that you must be excused from class because of some vague physical condition. If possible, use the word vagina. This will always work.
I fake that I like thunderstorms, my phony giggles as frantic as the thunder crashing overhead, so great is my fear of passing this weird phobia onto my children.
I know parents who fake-"bathroom-break", just to have a few quiet moments to themselves. I've tried it, it really is precious.

I also know my fake-ness limitations. These are things I absolutely cannot fake. They include (but are not limited to): driving stickshift, my repulsion of stew, sewing, and any interest/abilities in all things sporty. Case in point: I once, very earnestly, referred to the people who come out to watch a sporting event as the audience ( the correct term, my fellow coach potatoes, is spectators, or fans. Never ever audience). Btw, this conversation was between me and my sister-in-law, an Olympic athlete.
Since I am so honest with myself about the things I can fake (yes, I too, am troubled with this statement), I was surprised to discover that you can't (well, I can't), fake my way french.

Pretending to understand what the hairdresser would like to do with my hair was an embarrassing lesson of this:
Me: Um, patatre (btw, correct pronunciation would have been peut-etre) juste une petite coupe de cheveaux aujourd-hui, juste comme ca (holding onto maybe a 1/4 inch of hair).

Hairdresser, gently lifting hair up and away from face: oui, oui, .......garble garble, garble

Me (nervously flattening hair back down again): pas de beacoup coup, juste une petit, petit petit (said three times for clarity) coup s'il vous plait, Madame).

This continues for a while, with a few other stylists coming over to help the consultation. They all look so earnest, so contemplative. I hear words (I think) like pretty, face, cute, layers, flattering being thrown around, and I slowly begin to nod, agreeing enthusiastically with them, caught up with all the attention. Finally:

Hairdresser: ok, we begin ( I am now, I imagine, understanding french)

At this point, I am handed a glass of wine, pinot noir I am guessing, to celebrate. I relax, picturing the nouvelle moi. I try not to get nervous with all the hair gently falling into my wine. I try to blink away the tears as my forehead becomes increasingly exposed.

Hairdresser: ok, C'est fini (and back to reality where I acknowledge that I really don't understand french at all)

Let's just say that baby bangs and a round freckled face do not ever belong in the same sentence or image, regardless of the language they are spoken of in.