two hundred two. [Moveable Feast.]
Because things are different in Paris, Christopher lets his hair come back in dark. Although he always liked the look of it blond, he never became accustomed to it. [His natural hair never makes him pause and double-take when he passes mirrors.] He abandons the contact lenses and returns to glasses with square heavy plastic frames. It makes him look something of a beatnik; he emphasizes the effect by wearing black turtleneck sweaters and spending his days nursing cups of black coffee in sidewalk cafés, scribbling nonsense in little blue notebooks, wearing the expatriate face of a modern-day Hemingway or Fitzgerald.