‘A Parisian look?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
Pausing only to offer a short prayer of thanks to the gods of fashion in their 8th arrondissement temples, I try to push home my advantage.
‘So Parisian fashion is based on being unconventional?’
‘No.’ Marie-Christine shakes her head. ‘Parisians are not unconventional at all, because they all go with the group.’
Damn, back to square one.
‘A while ago,’ she continues, ‘some photographers put on an exhibition of pictures of teenage Parisian girls who they had just stopped in the street. And the girls all looked almost exactly the same. They were all holding their bags the same way—’ Marie-Christine holds out her arm, crooked at the elbow, the wrist bent, and sags slightly under the weight of a large handbag full of school-books, and I instantly picture the crowds outside lycées at going-home time.
‘But en province, don’t girls look like that?’ I ask.
‘No. They’d love to, but they’re too coincées.’ (Meaning uptight or stuck in their ways.) ‘Provincials go to the same shops as the Parisians, the big international brands, but they don’t dare pick out very different things and wear them together. Parisians look a lot more relaxed about what they’re wearing.’
‘So it’s got a lot to do with self-confidence, then?’
‘Yes, and sophistication. Not in the sense of being elegant, but in the sense of knowing how to buy things that look almost exactly like what everyone else is wearing, but are slightly different, and probably made by the latest hip brand. It’s part of their education. They observe, imitate and adapt.’
‘So maybe this is the definition of a Parisian look,’ I suggest. ‘You select what you want from everything that’s on offer in Paris—and there’s a hell of a lot on offer—and you make it your own.’
‘Yes, but within limits. You can’t be a total eccentric like some Londoners. In Paris, there’s a kind of general dress code you have to respect. And at least teenagers are a bit creative, unlike the bobos.’ These are the forty-plus bourgeois Bohemians who don’t want to wear business suits. ‘The bobos all buy exactly the same things from the same shop. They go to L’Éclaireur [a chain of arty lifestyle shops, with a name meaning scout or pioneer] and they buy clothes, candles, furniture, everything. Bobos will even have the same air freshener in their toilet. So they’ll look laid-back, as if they don’t care, but it’s all very sophisticated because everything is expensive and it’s the latest, trendiest stuff.’
‘And is it all French stuff?’
‘No, but that doesn’t matter in Paris. For example, I pay 300 euros to get my hair cut and dyed—’
I interrupt her with a gasp—not because she has admitted that she’s not a natural blonde, but because Parisians never usually reveal the price of anything expensive. It’s a sign that we’re getting into serious territory.
‘I go to a private apartment,’ she continues, ‘not some place on the street—you have to know where it is. And absolutely everyone goes there. It’s the hippest place in Paris. And the hairdresser is Australian.’
‘Australian?’ The man whom the hippest Parisiennes allow to cut their hair comes from the capital of canned beer, kangaroo poaching and burping?
‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter. Paris recognizes quality. It takes what is best from everywhere and makes it its own.’
Like Chanel taking Karl Lagerfeld, and Dior taking Galliano. It’s what Susan was telling me. It all fits. This, then, seems to be the definition of Parisian style. It’s quite simply your choice of the best of everything. The choice will be slightly limited and conventional, but it’s the mix of ingredients that counts. It’s like a giant French salad bar—you can have what you want, but only if it’s in season. There’s no danger that anyone will expect Parisians to wear an airline pilot’s hat with a tutu and football boots. So they’ll always look and feel relaxed. It’s a great recipe for success—and anyone can do it.
There’s only one more thing I need to know. As a middle-aged Parisian who doesn’t want to wear business suits, exactly what fragrance of air freshener should I be using in my toilet?
‘Just go to L’Éclaireur,’ she tells me, ‘and sniff. You can’t go wrong.’
Shopping in a country where men wear slips
The posh fashion stores in the 8th arrondissement will all have sales assistants who speak English, as well as the language of any country that is famous for sending wealthy visitors to Paris. Many cheaper stores in the city centre will also have English-speaking sales staff, especially if they’re fresh from school. But even if you’re forced to go native, buying clothes doesn’t have to be an intimidating linguistic experience. While the French naturally have plenty of their own words for fashion items (chemise, jupe, pantalon, haut, chaussures, sac à main, etc.), they also use a fair number of familiar English words.
There are, however, a few grammatical and pronunciation guidelines that must be obeyed:
1. Some clothing words look like English but aren’t. These ‘false friends’ include:
robe, which is a dress, not a bathrobe
veste - a jacket
slip - a pair of underpants (male or female) rather than a ladies’ underskirt
culotte - a general word for knickers, and not trousers that look like a skirt
blouse - an overall rather a women’s shirt (that’s un chemisier)
cravate - a normal tie, not something worn by Noel Coward
costume - a men’s suit rather than fancy dress
tissu, which is fabric and not something you sneeze into (while materiel means equipment rather than material)
habit - an item
