Love Style Life

by Garance Dore

  Brianna Lance

  This is the remedy for bad hair days and it works at any length (even for short hair like mine!) All you need is a good hair gel (I love Kiehl’s). It’s also great when you want a look that’s special and sophisticated, but your hairdresser is booked. A lot of us are insecure about giving our face the spotlight, but we shouldn’t be: I’ve never seen a woman look anything but elegant with slicked back hair.

  Reece Solomon

  THE TURN OF THE SCREW (TURNING 40)

  By the time you read these pages, I will be in my forties.

  Or dangerously close. Or, if you’ve picked up the book a little late (wait, what’s your excuse again?), in them completely.

  Let me tell you a little bit about how it feels.

  Great. Horrible. Shameful. Proud. Old. Young. Ah!!! Nonsense. Yeah. Exactly that.

  It’s a little bit like teenaging, all over again.

  Like the other day, a younger guy flirted with me and I was so shocked that I said to myself: “Are you a pervert, young man?”

  That’s how stupid you get when you’re about to turn forty.

  Of course, so many questions surface when age invites itself in. Where am I with my life? Is there still time to make a baby? (I really believed the magazines that said forty was the new thirty. “Your ovaries don’t read the same magazines as you do,” says my gynecologist.)

  Am I happy with my job, my love life? Am I really at the middle of my life? Let me count.

  Yes, I am. OH SHIT.

  In your head, you’re still the same as you were at twenty.

  Okay, wiser. Okay, calmer. Okay, less broke. Okay, less attracted to unfitting relationships. Okay, less attracted to crazy nights in dance clubs.

  Well, maybe you’re not the same. And you like yourself better now, except for a few things.

  At forty what hits you is that your body really starts changing. So if you wanted to go about your life and forget that you’re getting older, you can’t: Your body is there to remind you.

  Remember when you hit your teens and your body started to go crazy on you?

  Some body parts changed shape and hair grew in weird places?

  Same thing. And the same type of insecurity rises from it (damn, just when you thought you had your life together).

  Those little shadows under your eyes after a long night of partying?

  Now they are deep, dark circles if you stay up to watch even one extra episode of Game of Thrones. They’re there even if you haven’t watched anything. Actually, the circles are part of you now.

  Oh, and that little croissant you liked to reward yourself with once in a while?

  Well, now it stays with you (in the form of cellulite on your tummy). Good thing that now you can also probably afford Spanx, ’cause life is nicely made that way.

  Those charming “expression wrinkles” you had on your forehead sometimes when you were tired and the lighting was bad?

  Well, now they seem to have taken up permanent residence. Oh, and the ones on the sides of your nose? What’s up, guys? You too were not invited. Candlelight tonight?

  AGE, you party pooper.

  Once the physical change is a reality, all of your proudly and loudly voiced opinions (“Fillers make people look crazy!” “Electric-current facials are torture!” “Botox was created for animals!” “All these things are unnatural!” True, false, true, and true) get slightly hushed. And interesting questions start to appear:

  “But what if done in moderation?”

  “What if I told no one?”

  And, most important: “But how old would forty-year-old celebrities look without them?”

  Whatever one decides—I have yet to make up my mind about some of these—there are so many ways to cope with aging, from concealer to Pilates to laser to Spanx, that it would be stupid to spend much time complaining about it.

  Which brings me to what I wanted to tell you.

  Most of what you hear about getting older is just total made-up forty-year-old bullshit. Don’t listen to it.

  Because, at forty, I’ve never felt more free, I’ve never had more courage, more humor, more success, more fun. Never in my life have I been so good at listening to myself and to others and feeling my life instead of thinking it. Never in my life have I felt so sexy and seductive; never in my life have I been surrounded by such interesting people.

  Now that I can talk to you from age forty, I can tell you—don’t worry, it’s all good. Life is the same, only better. Never perfect, never settled, never figured out, but ever beautifully flowing.

  How boring would a figured-out life be anyway?

  In my forties (as I tried to do in my twenties), I will live my life as an adventure. Have fun, take care of my body, go see a shrink to answer some of my deep/stupid questions, fail at a good number of things, succeed at a few. Try to love better. Just be me. And laugh at the numbers.

  Oh, and I will never call anybody who is attracted to me a pervert. Except if he’s running naked after me in the dark. In that case, I’ll just turn around and show him my Spanx. That’ll do.

  ON BEAUTY

  ONE ON ONE WITH A WOMAN WHO INSPIRES ME

  GD: You have a way of being that is so natural and relaxed. What does beauty mean to you?

  DB: (Laughs.) I don’t have the DNA to be cool and mysterious. I’m like a Labrador! I think a smile is the best makeup, better than lipstick. And laugh lines are so much cooler than eyeliner. Also, it can’t hurt to have a good concealer.

  GD: We’re both about to turn forty! How do you feel about it? And how should we embrace it?

  DB: Whenever I think about the aging process, I immediately cut to an It’s a Wonderful Life montage. Without each of my experiences, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I believe that I only get better as I get older, so that has to translate to looks too!

  GD: You just had a baby, and I love the fact that on some show you basically said, “I wanna take my time losing my baby weight, and fuck the rest.”

  DB: Yes, I really took my time — like three years! And my husband was the nicest you could ever imagine about it. A woman needs to feel that way when she’s going through big, dramatic changes. My feet grew two-and-a-half shoe sizes!

  GD: What do you find beautiful in others?

  DB: I think beautiful people make the effort and care enough to tell you the truth and to guide you with their words and their time. That’s true beauty to me. That, and a good concealer. I really do go back to concealer.

  PARIS VS. NEW YORK

  THINGS PARISIANS DO

  To the untrained eye, Parisians look a lot like New Yorkers:

  Both dress like everyone else in their neighborhood but believe they’re totally unique. For Parisians, Paris = France, even if the rest of the country disagrees. (Sound familiar, New Yorkers?) And they are always thinking about how to escape Paris but shed a little tear each time they see the Eiffel Tower.

  Aside from those similarities, Parisians and New Yorkers are actually very different.

  PARISIANS LOVE…

  Complaining, of course. I always forget how much Parisians love to complain. I land in Paris with a sense of sweet joy (Wooooooooh, I’m gonna be able to eat a real croissant with real butter in it! And the first one doesn’t count.) My adopted New Yorker hysteria lasts till I set foot in a cab.

  There is no hello.

  Instead, the driver immediately launches into “I’m just warning you, madame, we’re gonna get into traffic. And you really picked the right destination, eh! (Parisian irony, right there.) Right in the center of the city; what a grreaaat idea. C’est tout paralysé. Whaaat? Naaaaaa, I’m not saying you’re paralyzed, madame—oh, and she takes offense pretty easily, la petite madame! I’m talking about the city! It’s the city that’s paralyzed! Paris! Oh, but this again, it’s because of politicians. You know, the left wing…”

  Here, beware. You cannot just ignore the cab driver by pretending to have e-mails, like you would in New York.

&
nbsp; What the Parisian loves best is to complain with you.

  So just know: If a Parisian starts to complain, it is your duty to complain along with him. That’s how you make friends in Paris.

  Talking for hours. Remaking the world, as we say. The main activity at Parisian dinner parties.

  Going to the Flore, but not sitting on the tourist side—ew. Parisians have their zones, you guys.

  Pretend that you know the waiter and Frédéric Beigbeder (notorious Parisian party animal/writer): “Yeaaah, he’s a friend. Yeaaah, he didn’t say hello THIS time, but it’s a game between us, because we’re such good friends, you see?”

  Smoking. Parisians love to smoke. They smoke whenever they can, anywhere you’ll let them smoke, and in any weather. They don’t mind sitting at a café terrasse on a snowy day just so they can smoke. They even still smoke in some clubs. Nobody would dare ask a Parisian to stop smoking.

  Saying “I’m quitting smoking” while lighting a cigarette.

  Driving like a lunatic, parking wherever, being super proud of their Smart car all beaten up by Parisian life, knowing all the shortcuts of Paris.

  Hosting improvised parties. Start drinking an apéro at seven, then hang around, open some wine, and decide to cook an easy (but delicious) pasta while remaking the world till four in the morning. Call the neighbors, the single friend who lives three blocks down. Get a little bit tipsy, laugh a lot. Be cool.

  Being frank. The Parisian is nothing if not frank.

  “What the hell is that coat?” = It looks so-so on you; we can go back to your place to change it if you want.

  Giving disguised compliments.

  “Hey, I haven’t received my art print!” = I like your illustrations; congrats on your shop. (I wouldn’t say no if you sent me one.)

  Having a family of friends they’ve known forever, loving and hating them but being ever faithful to them. Spending weekends with them, vacations with them. Not socializing too much outside of that, because who needs more friends? Being ready to do anything for them.

  Being very, very, very careful when a newcomer tries to join the group. Almost cold. Even mean sometimes. For a long time. Maybe a year. Maybe more.

  After at least a year or more, saying like it’s nothing: “You’re coming on vacation with us this summer?” Understanding you’ve found your family of friends. Being ready to do anything for them. Being very careful with newcomers.

  Shopping at Monop’ (a cheap but chic chain store, sort of like the French Target). The Parisian loves Monop’, because every French girl grew up close to one. Being able to say, when someone compliments your cashmere sweater: “It’s Monop’!” Very Parisian.

  Having very heated conversations. Spending an entire evening arguing on subjects as varied as politics, Kim Kardashian, philosophy, anything, as long as the conversation heats up. Start talking louder. Shouting sometimes. Pretend to be very mad: the definition of a successful Parisian dinner.

  Flirting. Parisians love to flirt. In Paris, here’s how it happens:

  The Parisian woman:

  Pretends she is completely unaware of the guy who’s coming on to her, makes fun of him “to test him,” ditches him to have drinks with her friends, and makes fun of his DESPERATE texts. Behaves like a real pain in the ass until he falls completely and totally in love with her.

  Then maybe she’ll agree to give it a try, make him her slave for a year, then decide she loves him and wants to make him a baby. Thinks about getting married, maybe one day, “just for the party.”

  The Parisian man:

  Loves to be super pretentious, thinks he is Serge Gainsbourg, goes out with a dozen girls at the same time, and parties in clubs till dawn. Thinks that all girls are the same, is a total asshole till meeting that pain-in-the-ass girl who has him totally under her thumb, and then becomes the sweetest guy ever.

  Makes a baby with her, but forgets to ask her if she’d want to get married.

  PARISIANS LOVE

  TO SAY: “I’M QUITTING SMOKING” WHILE LIGHTING A CIGARETTE.

  THINGS PARISIANS SAY:

  “I certainly don’t exercise,” and actually really not exercising.

  “Today I’m exercising!” Like it was the event of the year. Then trying to go incognito to the gym because you couldn’t find any exercise gear except old sweatpants you’ve been sleeping in since high school.

  “The Marais, it’s over!” and then ending up in the Marais. “No, but, Garance, we’re talking Haut Marais here! Completely different!”

  “Merde,” “putain,” “fait chier” (like saying “shit” “fuck” “it sucks”) every other word, and sometimes all three in a row (when, really, it sucks).

  “Yeah, what can I do? I’m a snob.”

  “I should go to the Louvre one of these days. Wanna come with me to the Louvre? Oh, you prefer going to the Bon Marché? All right.”

  Talking in negatives.

  “It’s not bad, uh?” = It’s good.

  “No, but I’m not saying I’m not liking it” = I like it.

  “It’s great, no?” = It’s great, isn’t it?

  AND PARISIANS HATE…

  Waiting in line = The Thing Parisians Hate More than Anything in the World. Parisians hate queuing so much that they’ve all agreed to hate queuing together. So instead of arranging themselves in a nice line and politely talking and introducing their dogs like in New York, the Parisian will do anything to go first (pretend he’s sick, create a double line, a triple line, pretend he knows someone at the front of the line), and it creates a general mess where everyone ends up pushing and insulting one another.

  Crossing at the green light. It’s much better to throw yourself under a car than to wait.

  The Parisian woman hates taking the subway, but she sort of has to, because of the trafic de merde. And because she’s a smart one, she has developed the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde–subway technique:

  She walks down the street, fast, chic, full of allure.

  She steps into the subway and suddenly transforms—maybe it’s the way she folds her scarf to hide half her face, or the way she takes her hat down, puts her shoulders up, and the expression “don’t talk to me or I’ll kill you!!!” Anything to ensure that no one will notice her or talk to her, because, really, the subway is a pain, “even more on my line, Garance, I swear, my line really sucks.”

  And then she emerges from the subway, puts everything back in place, stands straight, walks fast, chic, with allure. Chic, yes, but not in the metro.

  Working during vacation. (Which is healthy, no?)

  Don’t you ever, ever, ever try to contact a Parisian during vacation. Not only will you find a saturated voice mail, but your number will be forever blocked from that Parisian’s phone.

  Calling during vacations? WHO DOES THAT???

  Other drivers: Honk, shout, and use body language. A raised hand, completely folded except for the middle finger, expresses frustration over not being the only car driving around the Arc de Triomphe.

  Other bikers: No pity for those stupid people who go super slow on the bike lane with their broken bikes (yep, choosing a perfectly functioning bike is an art that one has to learn). Right to insult = oui.

  Other pedestrians: Let out a very loud sigh and power walk to get in front of a slow walker, when a simple “excuse me” could have worked just as well.

  Tourists, even when the Parisian himself is a tourist. Hating other tourists when you’re in Paris—all right, we get it.

  But hating tourists when you’re in New York and yourself a tourist, that is very, very Parisian.

  Yves Saint Laurent said it first, and best, “Sans élégance de cœur, il n’y a pas d’élégance.”

  Caroline Issa

  Yves Saint Laurent said it first, and best, “Sans élégance de cœur, il n’y a pas d’élégance.”

  As much as I love fashion, I agree that true elegance is found elsewhere.

  It’s in the way we behave with others.

  S
ome call it manners, or etiquette, but to me it’s deeper than that, because good manners are just a matter of culture. Did you know that opening a present in front of the person who gave it to you is considered very rude in Japan? You’re supposed to take it home and open it privately.

  Whereas in France, not opening it right away would be like saying, “I couldn’t care less about your present!”

  I’ve tried many times to fit into the cultures of the different places where I’ve been, but after a few major fails I’ve decided to rely on what my heart tells me.

  In France, we call that “élégance de cœur,” elegance of heart. I know, it sounds cheesy.

  But you know what? True elegance is also knowing when one should be cheesy.

  Let me tell you how I discovered élégance de cœur.…

  You could probably say I’m at ease with myself.

  I’ve even made it my profession. I talk about myself every day on my blog.

  It’s ironic, because I used to be desperately shy.

  I remember turning bright red anytime I had to say something in front of a group.

  As a kid, it made my life very difficult at school. Asking to go to the bathroom was torture, so I just didn’t do it. I would suffer a whole day. Answering a teacher’s question out loud was impossible for me. I would melt in front of the class and feel terrible for weeks, telling my mom I never wanted to go to school ever again.

  To make up for never talking in public, I was a very applied and sweet pupil.

  I had very few friends; I felt different and a bit awkward.

  It got a little bit better when I became a teenager. The shy kid turned into a deep, passionate teenager. A very INTENSE (dramatic voice inflection) teenager. I had a very close circle of friends. Two friends, to be exact. Two of the nerdiest girls at school.