For all of you who didn’t think my abstract musings on French women were terribly informative, here’s something more corporeal.

While I was in Paris, I scoured the streets for the Next Big Thing. Years ago, before the Information Highway was divulging everyone’s secrets at the speed of broadband, it was an accepted fact that Europe was (about) two years ahead of North America in terms of fashion. That meant if you found out what the French or Italians were wearing, you could pretty much guarantee you’d be wearing it, too - in about 24 to 30 months.

Now that fashion has gone global (and lost a whole lot of its unpredictable charm, I might add) its homogenizing us to a certain extent. Girls in Paris, strictly in terms of fashion, looked a whole lot like girls in Toronto. In the warm weather, it was all leggings and flats; there were empire waists everywhere. Everything was charming and mod and 60s revival with short dresses and long sweaters and yadda yadda yadda.

There was one thing, though…

Le Hammer Time!

Droopy drawers at Dior Homme.

That’s right people - the Harem Pant (or whatever they’re calling it this time around) is back.
It was only a matter of time anyway. I mean, how saggy could pants get before someone just told the tailor to drop the crotch so we could all move on with our lives?

They were all over Paris. I got a pair for myself in knee length denim, and a pair for my sister in full length cotton at the Clignancourt flea market. From soft jersey knits to satin, they were already available in every possible combination of fabric and hemline.

After showing on runways for spring, they’re on definitely on their way here. Gwen Stefani along with her line LAMB are one of the first on the bandwagon (whatever your feelings are about her, the girl has and eye for style) and the Second City Style blog has proclaimed them, and I quote, “BEYOND awful”. The latter is hardly a glowing review, but anything that inspires such a visceral reaction is bound to be big.

coco.

“What the?! Where’d all this extra fabric come from?”My France Pants.

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It took me a couple of days before I had my first epiphany. For a city devoted to the cosmetics industry, makeup was incredibly conspicuous. With the exception of teenagers (who are apparently universally unable to limit there use of lipstick and eyeshadow) I have never seen so many untouched faces in my life. Among them, my own conservative touches of mascara and blush made me feel gauche and painted. That said, I have never seen such lovely skin. I started to think what the French girls were saving on foundation they were spending on the best moisturizers. Correction: What they were saving on foundation and shampoo.

I don’t want to make any rash generalizations, but it seems French girls don’t wash their hair all that much. Nor do they iron, curl, or even brush it all that regularly. There were lots of ponytails - haphazard things - and loose messy locks. Up to that point I don’t know I’d ever gone more than two days without a shampoo in my life, but my friend and I got into the spirit of the thing immediately. We laughed, wondering how long we could reasonably hold out between washings (four days) and loving the time it saved us. Again, though, despite the greasy hair and the messy hair, it was unquestionably healthy hair and, more often than not, impeccably cut.

One thing was clear, though. What the Parisiennes didn’t spend on moisturizers and haircuts went straight to clothes.

In the Paris metro in my chic new Paris coat.

Style-wise, it was a very conservative city, very put together. From girls on bikes in perfectly cut jeans and classically worn vintage leather jackets to women in low-key designer, everyone had their look down. It was casual on the surface, but precise and well thought out. Running shoes were tourist wear - comfortable never meant sloppy. There was never too much jewelry or excessive decoration, never too much anything.

So what did all this add up to? Parisian women are Stunning.

Picture this woman: She is herself. She looks her age (only a little younger because she’s not trying to hide it). She is stylish, but she always wears her clothes, never the other way around. She doesn’t fuss, never pulls at a waistband or tugs at a hem. She is deliberate - and she’s not trying to impress anyone, which is always impressive. There was very little about Paris style that was really different in terms of clothes or a Look that would define the city for me. What I took away with me was a desire to be more - aesthetically honest, maybe, or at least less concerned with my clothes than the kind of attitude that came from the girl inside them.

I’ve been home for months, now. I had to leave a lot of Paris in France. Without context certain things just don’t make sense. I’m back on the mascara - sparingly - and shampooing three times a week. But I had all my hair cut off before I left Paris (an homage to Audrey Hepburn? or just a need to get rid of all those dead ends once and for all) and I’ve shelled out for better moisturizer…

Back home: freckled, flushed, and split-end free.

coco.

I don’t know when it was I became obsessed with Paris. You’d think that I’d have wanted to see it forever, but it wasn’t like that. The notion of Paris as the heart of fashion seemed contrived to me - an idea long past its due date. I was more interested in the street style of places like Berlin and new designers appearing from Holland and Belgium. Paris was too staid, too clichéd. Then, out of nowhere and on some very ordinary and forgettable day, Paris called to me.

The effects of Parisian style - or at least Parisian-inspired style - are everywhere. Attached to that inspiration are women. The mere thought of Paris seems to pull women out of thin air: Jean Seberg’s short haired gamine in Breathless, a forever Givenchy-clad Audrey Hepburn. It conjures images of wild Colettes and avant-garde expats, strong women like Gertrude Stein (hardly a fashion icon, but certainly a revered force of creativity). The French capitol is the seat of some of the most respected fashion houses ever built: Chanel, Hermes, Dior, and YSL - but it’s the women of Paris that have made those names great. Part of me suspected it was just another cliché - baguettes and cobblestones and an Eiffel Tower of hyperbole. Women are women. But what if they’re not?

Photo by Walde Huth

My best friend and I left for Paris at the start of September. I had two precious weeks to see as much of the city as I could and, at the same time, try and figure out exactly what it was that made a girl Parisienne.

Paris is a tough city for watching Parisians. It’s absolutely crampacked full of tourists (at least it was when we were there). In the first weeks of a warm September, the neighbourhood where we stayed (Pigalle, just below Montmartre) had more Scots than anything. In the metro we heard lots of German. On the Left Bank, Australian accents ruled. There were sight-seeing Italians and packs of teenagers from Spain. The weirdest part was, though, that despite their overwhelming numbers, and even without obvious maps or backpacks, the tourists looked like tourists. Right from the start we could almost always spot the French girls - even though we couldn’t really say why.

An American in Paris:
Jean Seburg in Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless

look for Part Deux on December 14th, 2007…
Coco.