Thursday, September 11, 2014

Looking Scruffy Is Selfish




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.

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