Practicing Your B*tch Face

Living in France for almost seven years has allowed me to master my b*tch face, my "don't mess with me or I break-a-your-face" face.  It was vital to my existance as a smily American - Californian en plus - and I am convinced that I am doomed for wrinkles as a result. Despite the wrinkle factor, it has saved me from the inevitable encounters that smiling at strangers in France will bring to you.  It's like saying, hey there hot stuff, wanna share a baguette? Where any American would think, oh, she's just being nice, your Frenchie would think oh la la! Therfore: b*tch face.

So imagine my stupor when walking home, b*tch face locked and loaded, a guy smiled at me and then just kept walking.  No creepy talking to me, no weirdo Bonjour Mademoiselle lines - just a nice, friendly smile.

I was shocked.

He must not be French.

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