I provided up lengthy ago on the concept that I might ever successfully replicate the simple and easy elegant of your regular parisienne. It’s an natural design that one is either created with or without, and it has become generously obvious who has it (most Feature women) and who doesn’t (me). I’m OK with this. But upon shifting to London, I created a surprising discovery: not only do I look like a hobo in comparison to Feature females, but also in comparison to their perfectly clothed kids. This was a more complicated tablet to take.
But it’s undeniable; there is a considerably shorter—but similarly intimidating—set of fashionistas wandering the roads of London, and they put me in my position (style-wise) on a regular foundation. This understanding originally sunk in one day when I discovered myself on a regular in the Tuileries next to a 4-year-old lady who was clearly way chilly than I will ever be. I was instantly get over with “outfit jealousy.” It’s the same way I experience about the lady in the picture above. Every last detail—from the traditional trench, to the stylish seafaring candy striped clothing, to the best dancing apartments and the playfully combined cuffs—is definitely spot-on and results in me shuddering as I keep in mind myself at age five: clothed in OshKosh B’Gosh overalls, fluorescent-colored stirrup tights, L.L. Vegetable turtlenecks, and poofy locks scrunchies. On really fashion-forward times, I would stone the lord punch bracelets. To complicate things, I usually had peanut butter in my locks and miracle marking all over my experience. My look was indeed simple and easy, but it was far from elegant.
Now, enclosed by these dapper younger ones, I can only gawk in wonder and take care of to outfit my own upcoming kids in head-to-toe Bonpoint. It’s not reasonable, and it never will be. Parisians—mini and full-sized alike—just do it better.