Since moving to Paris this summer, one of my dearest expat friends and I have developed a new pastime: playing the game of “Is she a Parisienne?” while sitting at a sidewalk cafe (BTW you can skip Les Deux Magots these days, but La Palette is still people-watching prime). “French girl style” has reached such a cliché that it’s almost embarrassing to discuss, but, like most clichés, there is truth to it.
The ironic thing is that the game is a layup. There are codes to how French women dress, and it’s not Breton stripes and straw market bags. That exists; but it’s a component, not the whole. It’s the idea of something being slightly off, a bit counterintuitive, a wink. The kind of accessory that makes you look twice, your head tilted to the side, wondering what prompted her to pick a belt so skinny or a shoe studded with crystals, which leads you then to wonder about the woman: who she is, what she reads, whether she prefers champagne or a white negroni.
