garance doré

It always takes me forever to choose which shoes to wear in the morning that I end up skipping the make up step so as not to be late for my rendez-vous.  That’s the way it goes for a hopeless fashion slave such as myself.  Feet before head.  Ah, bravo.

Since my twenties, I’ve always considered my face perfectly made up as soon as I’m done applying my day and eye cream.  The rest of my beauty routine takes time and therefore, it’s a luxury I can’t afford.

Besides, I hate using my fingers to apply foundation.  Eww.  Gross.

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It used to amuse me when I saw it from afar and on other people I didn’t know personally and only saw in pictures. Aesthetic medicine, that is. Now it scares me.

I’m not against it. I’m against the fact of being against it. I’ve always thought that there’s nothing wrong with a little procedure to make you look better, why not?

The problem begins when it becomes the false solution to a false problem.

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Jacket inspired from the SS09 Balmain show.

Last Sunday, I met up with a friend for coffee. She, with her slightly unkempt hair (a sighting as rare as seeing Simone Veil’s hair get messed up) and eyes hidden beneath large, smoky frames, began to speak to me: “Garance, there’s something I must tell you. I just had the worst night of my life.”

“It was so horrible that I didn’t even get to remove my make-up. Can you imagine that? Never, never in my life have I gone to bed with my make-up on. Look, I may happen to fall asleep on the sink but always with my face washed clean.”

“Wow” I told her in a half-mocking, half-surprised voice, “sounds very bad-ass. C’mon really?! Never ever?”

“Never. You know darn well it’s the worst thing to do.”

Now I was super-impressed. As for me, I can admit that I had slept some nights without ever taking the gunk off my face. Even if all the skin doctors, magazines, my mother and Simone Veil say it’s the worst thing to do.

So that was how my friend—thanks to the worst night of her life, the story of which I swore to heavens not to tell, my lips are sealed because I assure you, I’m no Gossip Girl—managed to come out with nary a fault to her beauty. Despite the circles under her eyes, the traces of mascara on her lashes and her disheveled hair, she looked lovely.

So much for her quest for perfection. So much for her night cream.

All the better for her strikingly classic Romanesque beauty.

Translation : Magali Eva Suárez.

Inspiration taken from an Alexander Wang hoodie. Stilettos, Balenciaga.

For years, when I was explaining to my friends why showing my legs was out of the question, it was enough that I show them solid proof to justify my case. Somehow, they quietly agreed and I’d be left in peace with my own beliefs.

At least that was how it all worked out for me. A certainty is a comforting thought. Almost like a comfy pair of pants.

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Alors, mes cheveux sont hyper longs, ça y est. Il m’arrivent aux épaules, même que quand je penche la tête en arrière, ils arrivent au milieu du dos. Bon quand je suis assise je peux aussi toucher mes genoux avec, mais je sais pas si ça compte.

Maintenant, la question cruciale, c’est : comment je fais pour ne pas me retrouver avec une botte de foin plus sèche que Lionel Jospin à la fin de l’été ? Vous faites quoi vous ? Faut-il vraiment dormir avec du beurre de karité et un papier alu sur la tête* ? Faut-il vraiment s’enduire le crâne d’huile d’olive** ? Faut-il vraiment ne pas se laver les cheveux pendant tout l’été*** ?

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* C’est Elle qui a dit ça. Mais moi mon alu beurré il finit toujours sur la tête de mon voisin.
** C’est ma grand-mère qui a dit ça. Ma soeur a essayé. Résultat : 10 jours de rinçage pour s’en débarrasser et l’impression d’avoir un plat de pâtes au pistou sur la tête.
*** C’est Jean-Marc Maniatis qui a dit ça. Si quelqu’un a tenté, qu’il lève le doigt.