Initially,
I assumed leaving Perth and stepping into a new world in Paris would
equal utter anonymity….allowing me to behave and dress however I
wanted. The idea that not knowing anyone meant I could dress badly
whenever I chose to, or taking the Metro, hungover, at 5am, would be
a treat, because who would judge an innocent teen after a night out
on the town? This concept soon became a consequence, as I soon
understood that: “Looking scruffy is selfish!”
Take
wearing track-pants for example. What an atrocity! Sundays were made
for wearing trackies and flip-flops, and burying your head in the
closest English Breakfast you can find. Initially I assumed people
were just staring at my unbrushed hair, hungover head and zombie
eyes, which I could cope with. It wasn't actually until I learnt the
word for track-pants in French “Pantalons
de jogging”
that I realised passer-byers were not disgusted by my state of
health, but rather my state of fashion. I recognised these
“pantalons
de jogging”
were an item of clothing not even worn by people jogging...because
looking scruffy is selfish. If I dress like a slob, I'm letting down
the whole city.
Coming
to terms with the emphasis on appearances is tough. For me it's
normal to have good days and bad days, and besides, dressing down has
its advantage: it makes you look extra good when you decide to dress
up. But try telling that to a Frenchman. Rigorous self-maintenance is
imbued from birth.
Growing
up, your parents will tell you that you need at least “one good
outfit” for special occasions, and the rest of your wardrobe can be
casual. This concept was not easily accepted by my French
girl-friends. For them, it's the opposite: “One bad outfit.” (I’m
yet to witness one of these departing from a wardrobe.)
In
my defence, I have grown up with three brothers and a very natural
mother, so I was in no way prepared for the make-up wearing, sexy,
stylish Frenchies. “What
even is a gee-string?”
A family friend in Perth said to my mum: “Paris will be good for
her, will teach her how to be a lady, away from those brothers of
hers.” C'mon now! Admittedly, my style has changed. In Paris there
is no such edginess. The French don't dress to make political
statements like in London. They are not ones for irony or innovation
when it comes to fashion. Unlike in Perth, they don't want to stand
out for looking alternative or different. Even the Grannies here kill
it. I'll never forget the time I helped a woman, who looked about
100, onto the bus next to my school. She was rocking customised, gold
New Balance trainers.
The
phrase “less is more” has never been more apt. The distance you
will go in Paris with a pair of fitted jeans, a white t-shirt,
leather jacket and sneakers is quite uplifting. So, you want to avoid
comments like “Tess
shorts arrrr for tourists! If it's ot you wear ze cotton pants”
from a teacher at my university. My response was showing her Google’s
photo definition of a “bogan,” which nearly gave her a heart
attack. The key to a healthy mindset is trying not to care. Easier
said than done! I'm not Effy from “Skins.”
However,
a quality of my French friends that I really have come to love, is
that if you have shit in your teeth or any unsightly defect, they
will tell you straight up. At first I thought it was uncalled for,
when I had a French friend actually tell me my feet needed a pedicure
because my soles were not well maintained. Of course in my head I was
all “Well
ex-squeeze me! But you did not grow up walking on burning bitumen to
get to a sandy beach? Do you even know what bitumen is? Bit(ch?)”
Instead
I sucked it up and replied calmly “I'll
be sure to get myself a Ped-o-Egg” Mind
you, feet were a very sensitive topic at the time. Since leaving
Australia, having feet that could live harmoniously and bare, without
any form of coverage, was something I missed the most about home.
Another
personal favourite is my new French acquaintance who remarked “Tu
as un bouton la.” (“You
have a pimple there”) Really?
No, really? Well gee, thanks, I didn't notice the untamed beast that
has haunted me in the mirror every time I go to brush my teeth. I
needed you: the random person I've had casual drinks with several
times, to whisper it in my ear as though my face has committed a
crime so bad I ought to stay in next time!
When
it comes to fashion your individualism will undoubtably be affected
because inevitably a Parisian will pick you up on it. But
like Paris, the mindset of Parisians really grows on you. You start
to accept that you’re not in Australia, and instead of pining over
cultural clashes, you embrace the fact that your French friends won't
hesitate to tell you if you put on weight or look like crap. That's
their twisted way of telling you they care. What you see is what you
get, unlike in Australia, where girls prefer to mention such flaws
behind your back rather than to your face. After a year in Paris, the
abruptness and honesty of the French becomes an endearing quality.
