As is often the case after a trip, I can’t sleep. I’m just lying in bed. Awake. Did I have too much coffee today before I boarded the train home this morning? Did I miss my sleep window where I can easily drift off? Was I on the phone too late, revving myself up instead of winding down? I tried various ways to lull myself to sleep. Nothing worked so here I am – hunched over the computer. This seems somewhat reminiscent of the weeks and days before I moved to Paris two years ago this past month.

Having chucked all perishables before I left, my pantry empty except for some mustard, wine, dry goods to make a cake which I never seem to do and canned beans, dinner ended up being a massive can of lentils.

I did manage to unpack everything. This leaves me feeling like I deserve a medal. The toiletry case is stashed away, leaving the tiny toothpaste, toothbrush and contact case for future trips. All the clothes, both the old ones and the new purchases, are on hangers or in drawers. Seemingly millions of loose papers have found their way either to the trash, to a pile on my kitchen table or in some way designated for where they are to go next. A while back I bought the Lonely Planet book Europe on a Shoestring (which I highly recommend ) which I unbound, punched holes in and store in a binder, toting around a few pages at a time when needed rather than schlepping the whole book. I’ll re-file the London pages when I get in to work tomorrow.

The trip worked out a bit differently than I’d intended. For starters, I ended up sitting next to a guy who was fascinating but a space invader. That is to say I had very little wiggle room. Long story very short, it turns out he is an Arabian prince. Surprising. Odd. I could hardly believe it and yet it sort of rang true when he said it just before we parted ways at St. Pancras International.

I had planned to do a combination of sightseeing and shopping. I love shopping in London. Londoners come to Paris to shop and I go there. It’s a mixture of easy communication in English, more of a shared culture with the shopkeepers, and wild wonderful colors and patterns. That said, I do love (and envy) how French women dress. It’s some kind of glamorous and effortless I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-but-I’m-fabulous-and- have the-world’s-greatest-blond-highlights-and-my-clothes-rock-your-world. I’m sure you know what I mean. Somehow, though, when I wear them I look disheveled. At least at this stage in my fashion development, the French style hasn’t quite clicked with my look or my shape.

There is one bit of fashion I’ve been yearning to do for years. Well, I’m not sure you can really call it fashion but it’s more of a look. Ever since age 16 or so, I’ve wanted a nose ring. I can’t really say more than I think they are beautiful and they call my name. I love a tiny nose sparkle. I sported a small fake nostril hoop my senior year of high school. Some noticed it was fake and commented. Oh, the shame! But I couldn’t bring myself to do the real deal – not in high school and not later. What if I hate it and have a hole in my nose forever? What if it’s the reason I get rejected on a job interview? What if every guy I like finds it hideous?

I recently got the bug to reconsider a nose piercing. In Gare du Nord, the Paris train station where I was to catch my train to London, I popped in to Claire’s Accessories (yes, they have it here too!). I bought tiny stick-on rhinestones which seemed like a safe way to test out the idea. I wore it around for a few days and occasionally asked people what they thought of it. Most of the comments were along the lines of: “it suits you…” “I hadn’t noticed it…” “it’s really pretty…” “I didn’t know they sell stickers…” and “do you have an extra I can try?” I argued with myself in favor and against. I paced. I called friends. I furrowed my brows and made wrinkles. (This appears to be my approach when something really calls to me.)

I found some stores in London that do nose piercing and did a little due diligence. A phrase occurred to me that I’ve heard over the years: if you go into a barber shop, at some point you will walk out with a haircut. Haircuts notwithstanding, I looked at what my starter nose piercing could be. I wanted to go with a diamond-y nose ring but I feared I’d have to pick a horrid brass star or heart as was used when I got my ears pierced at eight years old. Turns out they have come quite a long way in 25 years! Off I went to Topshop and Selfridges. Topshop inspired confidence. Fabulous though it is, I didn’t get as good a vibe at Selfridges.

I considered and reconsidered then decided to sleep on it. Wanting to reduce the inner-pressure I felt, I told myself this was really of very little consequence and I could get it done in Paris when I got back. There really was no hurry, except that I might run out of guts. After all, there are plenty of places ready and willing to punch a hole in my nose.

And then I woke up. I changed my day. It needed to be done. To be honest, I’m not sure what shifted. But instead of venturing out to a river boat cruise on the Thames, I did an about-face and headed to Topshop. Walking underground to catch the Central Line train to the Oxford Circus tube stop, I had tears streaming down my face. Suddenly I felt afraid and free simultaneously. The voice that had kept me from doing it all these years was pushed aside. I felt vulnerable, exposed.

I already knew where to go. I arrived at the store, went down the escalator, made a right and headed through the heaps of dresses and the new fall collection. I signed up, signed the release, picked out the nose ring, paid my 25 pounds. I was introduced to Jack who showed me in to the stall of a room where everything would be explained and should only take five seconds I was told. I’ll spare you the protocol that was done, readying my nose for the event, but I must say that might have been the longest and perhaps the most painful five seconds of my life. I sat on my hands. My left eye watered. I squealed. I cursed myself for having this stupid, stupid idea.

On the train back, my new nose ring catching the French countryside light.

Then it was over. I felt dizzy and confused. I had a burst of adrenaline and a liberation of energy from all those years squelching the desire. I felt like I could bound up to the moon. Then I felt heavy as lead. I sat for a few moments, regaining my composure, feeling rather still. Then I got blabby, talking-talking-talking to Jack. I hesitated to move my face, hyper-aware that something was happening on/in my nose.

Jack did it in the perfect place. If it was done a bit more to the right or left it would have appeared out of synch with my face, out of balance with my features. I left the stall and drifted aimlessly through the store to steal glances (perhaps stare is more accurate) of myself in every mirror I passed. Shocked. Surprised. Thrilled. Panicked. I tried on masses of clothing, made at least five trips to the changing rooms. I didn’t want to leave the store. It felt like a little cocoon. I stayed on that lower level feeling protected from the hustle bustle upstairs and outside. I stared at myself in the dressing room. I talked slowly with the girls in the fitting room, trying to avoid facial motion but needing to connect with other people there.

I decided on a pair of dark green skinny jeans and a chiffon leopard top. On my way to the cash register, I stopped back to see Jack who was surprised to see I was still there. I felt awkward. I had clothes to purchase so my being in the store could be considered legitimate but it seemed so obvious, at least to me, that I was still there because I wanted/needed to see him again.

I geared up my courage. “You do piercings and tattoos all day”, I said. “For you, I may be a nervous, repressed American girl thinking she took a walk on the wild side today. Maybe you’ll remember a laugh or two. But for me, I will remember you forever. You are the guy who pierced my nose!” It didn’t quite come out how I wanted it to. Why does it always happen that way? I wanted to let him know what a difference he made in my life. That while it may have seemed a routine bit of work for him, for me he was a part of me fulfilling a dream of self expression. To do something I’d wanted to do for years. That he helped me fan out my inner-peacock tail. I felt fully expressed in my life in that moment, in the world. He could hardly know how much it meant to me. Then quietly, peacefully, steadily, he regarded me with crystal blue eyes. He took in what I said and warmly received the gift of thanks I offered him.

I took my new foxy top and jeans and headed back out to the streets of London. I considered finding my way to some magnificent monument or other but I felt too tired, too reflective, to do anything that required more than minimal attention.

I don’t think any amount of sightseeing could have given me the sense of inner-connection I felt in those moments or the moments that followed throughout the late afternoon and evening. I decided to head back to my friend’s house. I had dinner with her, caught up on the day, and chatted about my big decision, both of us surprised I actually went through with it.

I changed out of my clothes from the day and headed to bed. And slept like a baby.

Have you ever wanted to try something with your hair or body that you never had the courage to… yet? Let me know.