Sharon Harrigan

Author Website

By

Instant Parisian: Just Add Scarf

My three teenage nieces came to visit Paris for spring break, clad in fuzzy yellow fleece and sports team logos, carrying bulky nylon school backpacks. It was fun to see them transform into Parisians, accessory by accessory.

First came the change in totes, borrowing a trim black leather backpack to carry their guidebooks and phones. Then, off came the swim team ski caps, exchanged for a plain black hat or nothing at all. The hair rolled up into chignons. They each bought a cotton scarf. Et voila! Instant change from suburban American teens to in-the-know French jeunes filles.

I’m not the kind of person who thinks that what you look like equals who you are. Anyone who’s seen me get ready for the day in five minutes knows that. And yet, fashion is part of culture, so learning about French dressing (and I don’t mean the kind that goes on a salad!) is part of learning about life outside your backyard.

The first time I ever left America I was about the same age as my nieces. My Uncle Dennis generously allowed me to accompany his basketball team to Sweden. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the trip completely changed my view of the world and of myself. I immediately started to dress differently. My host family gave me a trim corduroy jacket to replace my bulky down one. And I bought a colorful scarf. It didn’t cost much, but it wrapped me up in much more than cotton. It enclosed me in everything cosmopolitan and global, in a world so much bigger than the one I knew before.

By

Fire Fighter Fashion

My husband James and I cycled next to each other on stationary bikes at our local Paris gym. “Have you noticed all the fire fighters?” he asked.

I shook my head. How had I missed that?

“The scene in the locker room was like something out of a gay porn film,” he said. “Firefighters stripping out of their rescue gear.”

Thirty minutes later, I caught sight of them hovered around the bicep curl and hip extensor machines. They were dressed in identical gym uniforms of clingy shirts outlining every chest muscle and minimal shorts emblazoned with the logo “Sapeurs Pompiers Paris.” Parisian fire fighters. I dare you to to come up with three hotter words.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that their outfits were not only athletic and practical. They were elegant, stylish, and color-coordinated. Classic heroic chic.

James and I heaved and grunted, getting more stinky and sweaty, as usual. The fire fighters seemed to enjoy everyone’s stares. I can’t have been the only person imagining what would happen if I “accidentally” dropped a weight on my foot, necessitating an urgent rescue from half a dozen men trained in mouth-to-mouth rescusitation. Men who, because their job is to save lives, are strong and competent. Men who, because they’re Parisian, are impeccably groomed and dressed. Where else, but in this belle ville, can you get that combination?