I was in for a shock. The kind that signals your acceptance in a new place. The kind makes you feel at home.

On the fabled streets of Paris, beards abound in all styles, shapes and sizes. Except the French beard (I didn't spot a single one throughout my stay). A heartening sight, given that my trip to Paris came just days after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, and I was forced to trim my own thick beard as a compromise for friends and family who'd begged me to do away with it altogether for fear of negative racial profiling.

I told my story to the bearded bartender pouring me a beer at The Bottle Club in Rue Trousseau. His initial sympathy gave way to anger. "Look at me. Here, people love beards. We are the cool ones in Paris despite what they might say in the news bulletins. Don't believe all that the television tells you."

I got polite smiles from the middle-aged women on the Metro, a respectful nod from the bus driver at Sacre Couer, soliciting looks from the girls at Pigalle (home to Moulin Rouge) and a seal of approval from a pretty woman at Club Concrete.

As I waited for a cr?pe at a cafe, I asked my beard-sporting Bangladeshi server how life was for him these days. The French are an intelligent lot, he said. "They know who is a friend and who is not. In this city, we rule." [#gallery: /galleries/5cdc35ac62fe4080b384234f]||| |||