I know, I know… French beauty, yada yada.
I myself did not move to Paris in search of a “French-girl look”. Cringe! For years I suspected it was a flimsy internet construct. A Breton-striped myth. And yet now, when I’m back in London or at home in Canada, I’m told that I categorically have one: “Omg, you look so French now!” Which is funny, because after a decade spent living here, I’m convinced that French beauty isn’t really a “look” at all. It’s an attitude towards imperfection.
There’s no going back. My teeth will never return to their former, North American orthodontic glory after years of coffee, red wine, and what I swear is jaw contortion caused by pronouncing French vowels. I will never again use fake tan, for fear of neighbourhood exile. And I have zero desire to revisit long blonde princess hair. My Gallic brainwash is apparently complete: a bedhead bob is now my ride or die.
Adeline Mai
Live here long enough and the cultural norms start to seep into you. You forget why you ever did things differently – I recently caught myself telling someone off for slow walking in the street.
Perhaps the most liberating shift has been aesthetic: the embrace of physical “imperfection”. If you think about it, the most iconic Parisian beauties aren’t flawless. Picture Charlotte Gainsbourg, her sister Lou Doillon or their mother, Jane Birkin. Vanessa Paradis and her signature gap-toothed smile. Laetitia Casta: earthy rather than ultra-polished. Golshifteh Farahani with her architectural brows and unapologetic stray greys on French TV recently, simultaneously breathtaking and signalling she has bigger things to think about.
These faces don’t erase their irregularities, they elevate them. The philosophy, as I see it, is simple: create a beautiful base, exaggerate one strong feature, and let the rest breathe. So, how does that translate in the bathroom mirror?
Morning “drainage”
Asia Typek
