There's a clever distinction between sitting out of the way on the stairs munching on shrimp rolls and contemplating La Grande Arche (not to be confused by the much smaller arche de triomphe twenty minutes down the road) and having a strange man in a Kepi stop by to grin and thank me for "being so mignonne" and...
...the stinky gnoll of a beast who sat beside me on the metro on the way home last night, pushing up against me in an empty car, rubbing his thigh against mine.
For the man in the kepi, I would keep my hair unruly and blond and will always smile and thank him for the compliment.
For the stinky bastards on the metros, who on crowded evenings stare at me openly with their hands moving in their trousers or push up against me when I'm backed into a corner and can't move away, I am learning to sit or stand where there is always an escape route, and to not be quite so shy in my disgust as I get up and move away.
But it's so damned difficult to lift your head and walk proudly when you feel filthy from such attentions.
But I'm learning.