The Style Trick French Women Use to Look More Interesting

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.

I think about the signifiers of style a lot. Besides running NRB Creative, my luxury brand consulting and interior design agency, which I started this year after almost nine years running brand at goop, I write Objects of Desire, which is about exactly what it sounds like: the things we buy, in fashion and interiors, and what that says about who we are.

We like to think that interesting people wear interesting clothes. That the outfit is not the byproduct of hours of styling (or gasp, a secret stylist. An increasingly common phenomenon I wrote about here), but rather the unintentional result of living a rich, layered life.

This accidental intrigue may not be so accidental. It’s a trick interior designers have used for centuries: the idea that for a room to have that rare, layered look, something has to be a little surprising. The best designers do this with what feels like wild abandon—a sculptural Floris Wubben side table meets a vintage Rezzonico style chandelier. It shouldn’t work, but it does, and it makes you wonder who lives there.

A prerequisite of the French women’s approach to dressing is to not look like everyone else. A surefire way to do that—and one of my own personal style rules—is to mix in at least one vintage piece whenever possible. The other requirement is to actually wear your clothes. The stereotype is that French women don’t shop as often as Americans do. The culture of consumption is different, but so is the relationship to clothes. Clothes are meant to be loved, reworn, repaired, until they are solely yours. And the last rule is to embrace new, young designers with gorgeous new points of view. If you’re curious where to start, try a crochet tunic from Heirlome, a pony effect leather coat from Loulou de Saison or Nour Hammour (the queen of IYKYK outerwear) or Rohe’s Mandarin jacket, but in the unusual color combination of taupe and black.

Recently, I’ve found my own outfit choices dictated less by innate process, and more by the occasion at hand. And while I think appropriateness is tablestakes, especially when you’re past 35 (you can get away with a lot more before that. Try it, it can be fun), I kept wondering why I looked more interesting when I was going somewhere interesting. I much prefer the sartorial version of myself that shows up to the opening of an art gallery than the one at the cocktail party for my daughter’s school. Which is to be expected, but also, why are we hiding our true selves?

Luckily, last week was Paris Design Week, which gave me plenty of voyeuristic options to observe well-dressed Parisians in gorgeous habitats. At the opening of Laura Gonzalez’s new wallpaper collection for Schumacher, at her stunning showroom in the 7th arrondissement, where crowds holding vintage champagne coupes spilled out onto the street, I spotted Laura in a feather Prada ensemble, but made cooler with a men’s overshirt thrown over it in a perfect camel shade. She told me she wanted to dress in muted shades to give her wallpaper its moment, but couldn’t resist a touch of feathers and a pair of glittery Prada ballet flats (who can? Her exact gold ones are sold out but a fun gold option here).

At Invisible Collection, where they served cocktails from a chic mid-century bar in the center of the showroom, I saw a woman clad in a vintage blue silk kimono jacket over a relaxed jean and satin slippers, sans makeup, hair tousled. She sat on the couch, deep in conversation, unaware that I was secretly clocking her outfit.

Apparently, you’re not supposed to compliment strangers on their outfits in Paris like we do in the U.S., so I refrained from asking her about her jacket.

And I was pretty sure that even if I did, I’d be met with a terse “it’s vintage.”