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.
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”
French women are borderline evangelical about their lymphatic systems. I used to find the regular “drainage” appointments excessive – until a Kobido facial left me feeling structurally reorganised. Now, mornings are about waking the face up rather than covering it. I layer on Aroma-Zone’s Vitamin C serum followed by hyaluronic acid, or when my skin feels dry, I switch to iS Clinical’s Pro-Heal Serum, then their Moisturizing Complex.
Once the serum is on, I use a rose quartz gua sha from Holidermie, working upwards for five minutes. The result is crucial circulation: yourself, just awake!
When I need to be recalibrated by a professional, I get a Kobido facial from Barbara Sand (she also does lymphatic drainage body massages in her cosy Paris nook), or I make an appointment at FaceStellar.
Finally, I’ve been obsessed with Sisley’s Black Rose Eye Contour Fluid for years now. The perfect morning refresh for eyes, it also doubles as a base for eye make-up.
Maintenance, not makeover.
Faire son teint
Before a wedding recently, my cousin-in-law (and French beauty guru) Iris de La Villardiere announced that she was going upstairs to faire son teint – to “do her base”. Not to mask her skin, to compose it. Fascinated, I followed her up to watch.
The ritual matters. Lightweight foundation. Cream blush. Skin that looks like skin – it’s not about perfection. Hermès (naturally) has elevated this step into something painterly with its primer and concealer duo. The brushstrokes are light and the finish is remarkably breathable.
The healthy flush
The just-rolled-out-of-bed glow is sacred in France. I keep Merit Beauty’s Flush Balm in shade “Stockholm” in my handbag for strategic cheek and nose taps. It mimics the effects of fresh air, rather than contour.
The “smushy” lip
The rumours are true: many Parisian women blur their lipstick on purpose. The edges are soft, slightly overdrawn, deliberately undone. I layer “En Feu” from Violette Fr until it looks lived in rather than lacquered – especially striking against a black tux, daytime Parisian neutrals, and/or winter skin.
Bushy brows
Brows are brushed up, not engineered. A quick zhuzh with Merit Beauty’s Brow 1980, and I’m done.
Then, occasionally, I pluck my mole hair. But someday soon I’ll leave it proudly in the open. Et voilà!