I’m loath to even discuss the unattainable fashion standards set by naturally stylish andelegant Parisiennes because it’s so often debated, analyzed and discussed but alas, it’s a pervasive issue. One of the most vaunted aspects of living in Paris is the fact that you are surrounded by some of the most naturally beautiful women in the world but this is intrinsically intimidating for many foreign women who feel that everytime they leave the intimate comforts of their apartments they are being judged. Well, they are.
Their anachronistic style is just as much as a mystery to the French as their sartorial splendor is to foreign women. There is mutual fashion perplexity.
Many expat writers have detailed their experiences in Paris and their encounters that caused them to question their sense of self but few have done it with such accuracy and wit as Sarah Turnbull in Almost French. I find myself nodding in agreement as I go from chapter to chapter, checking off the obstacles she faced from my list. “Went through that, had someone say that to me, saw that, felt that….”, I say to myself. In some ways I was particularly reassured upon reading that her boyfriend (now husband) bemoaned her fashion choices when going out in public because it’s happened to me. In the book, she slips on a pair of tracksuit pants to make a quick trip to the bakery only to meet the disapproving remarks of her boyfriend who explained that track pants were “not nice for the baker!”, as though her choice of pant was offensive to the public.
When I first started dating my husband, I would often hear things like “oh, you’re going to wear that?” or “you’d look better if you wore xyz”. I swear that his mood would change if I wore something he particularly disliked, as though it put him so ill at ease that his face couldn’t hide it. In previous posts I mentioned the countless times I’ve been looked up and down with disgust as I walk to and from the gym in my workout gear, a seemingly innocuous offense if you ask me. If I go directly from the gym to a shop, I’m looked at like a sordid hobo who shouldn’t be served. But as Turnbull describes,
“Looking scruffy is selfish. Not only do you look like a slob but you let down the whole city”.
This isn’t to say it happens to me everytime, or that this idea isn’t somewhat exaggerated, but it seems to be the best explanation of the French mentality. Running to the pharmacy or supermarket requires careful grooming and an outfit effortlessly put together – much different from my days of running such errands adorned with an old pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and whatever shoes happened to be within reach.
I’m reminded of the times when my husband would groan and roll his eyes when he’d see me throw on my old GW Law School t-shirt to go workout. Incredulous, I asked him what could possibly be wrong with wearing an old t-shirt to the gym – a shirt that will end up sweaty and stinky in the laundry basket a few short hours later. “It’s hideous… so unflattering”. Each time this happened, I wanted to pull my hair out. WHO CARES? I thought. If he wanted an impeccably groomed girlfriend at all hours of the day, he should’ve gone French. “But you’re exotic”, which can be interpreted a number of ways.
Chapter 10 of Turbull’s expat bible made it all clear. Vanity is a natural-born right and shouldn’t be taken lightly. Aesthetics are as important to the French as flossing is to Americans – it’s a crucial element of daily self-maintenance. Regardless of where you’re going or how long you will be out in public, what you wear can impact the moods of those around you.
I still think it’s ridiculous but I’ve come to one conclusion: I can buy the same clothes as Parisian women and wear them in the exact same fashion but I will never look like them, walk like them or carry myself like them. I will never have their innate effortless mystique nor will I properly wear a scarf so that it hangs gracefully around my neck like a second skin. In two years I can apply for nationality and in 3 I will probably be a dual citizen, an honorary French woman so-to-speak. But I will always feel slightly out of place. My personal style has evolved tremendously since I’ve lived here and admittedly has become more “Parisian” but I’m realizing that I’ll never quite be French. At least I have good teeth.
