Let’ be honest, I have nothing to tell you about my own life.

I’ve got my head in my garden and I’m experiencing different things—who would have thought that watering your olive trees at sunset, bare feet, all covered in mud be a version of climax?

My life is anti-fancy before it will be SUPER FANCY, when I—obviously—become Morocco’s Martha Stewart. In the meantime, all I have to go about in the way of sex, city, and romance are my friend’s stories. Oh, but they are so good.

Here are a few, generously donated by them.

Man Lost

My friend is splendid. She’s my age, and she was flirting with a sweet lawyer in his early forties. She didn’t really care for him.

“I’m just having fun, but he’s so cute!” she shared with a girlfriend twenty years her junior.

She would never have imagined what would happen when, a few days later, the younger woman asked for the lawyer’s phone number “to ask him a legal question.”

Several weeks went by, and then one day a message popped up on WhatsApp.

“Hi! I thought you should hear it from me... I’m seeing the lawyer now.”

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There was a point in my life when I sincerely believed I was done flying coach forever.

I thought that once you graduated to business class, that was it. You had crossed over. The rope closed behind you forever.

It was the era of America. Magazine editorials, front rows, absurdly expensive facials with famous plastic surgeons, vapid boyfriends, and high-heeled sneakers—which I will never forgive myself for, but that’s another story.

I had more airline status than a Dubai influencer. I was living in New York, flying long haul constantly, gliding through airports with my pretentious collector Rimowa suitcases, and every kind of priority pass the modern world has invented for the rich and famous.

I wasn’t rich or famous, but, who cares? I had it all—

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Fast track.
VIP line.
Private lounges.
Drivers.
In-flight caviar.
Clear, that thing that scans your retina and lets you through security in one second and with the smile of the agents.
Global entry, the flex of all flexes.

Someone to carry my carry-on.

And even if I remained, deep down, a good Corsican peasant girl—and your trusted servant—this kind of lifestyle has a way of becoming baseline. Human beings adjust to luxury with terrifying speed.

Then I stopped working, moved back to Europe, and lost all airline status, real and imagined. And that, my dear reader, is when your humble servant got humbled.

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Hair loss is sneaky—you don’t really see it, you barely feel it. It’s also very easy to just decide to ignore it. You had so much hair to start with. Even your hairdresser can’t tell the difference.

Slowly, over a few years, your hair texture changes. It’s not just hair in the shower—it can also be the most discreet, innocent, progressive thinning. A hairline that, ever so slowly, loses its definition.

You’ll be like, “Am I imagining this?”
And most people will be like, “Oh, you totally are!”

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I started noticing it a few years ago. At the time, I had gotten used to parting my hair in the middle. I got a bit annoyed when a white patch showed up right where I was parting my hair. I didn’t want the black-on-white look, so I started covering it with this perfect tool—and that’s how I started noticing the part was widening.

I completely freaked out. My mother has had severe hair loss—so I know how you can go from a mane to not much at all. I know the aesthetic and psychological damage. There was no way I was letting that happen.

So I did everything. Hormone panels, scalp massages, supplements. Drops.
Red light therapy. Diet. I even decided to cut my hair to avoid traction alopecia.

But I can’t tell you if any of it works. The reason? I’ve never been disciplined enough to really keep at it—and with hair, you have to be veeeeeeeery patient. Nothing shows for months and months.

There was also the Minoxidil route. I never took it. I know it works. But it felt like it might be toxic, and it demands A LOT of discipline. And the second you stop, your hair falls out again.

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Then I heard about PRP—platelet-rich plasma therapy. It’s regenerative medicine: they use your own plasma to stimulate dormant hair follicles. It won’t bring back dead follicles, but it can wake up the ones that are still alive.

I did it in Marrakech with my friend Zahira Benzenzoum, who’s a plastic surgeon and obsessed with regenerative medicine.

Here’s how it goes:

1/ They draw your blood.
2/ The blood gets centrifuged to separate the plasma.
3/ The plasma is injected back into your scalp with tiny needles. Repeat once a month, for three months.

Yes, you read that right. Lots of needles. On you scalp.

IT’S MEGA-PAINFUL.

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Here is my feedback.

1/ It truly hurts. And I have a high pain tolerance. One of my friends stopped halfway through and literally said she’d rather go bald. I took an Ibuprofen the second time, and it was easier.
2/ Results aren’t immediate—obviously. But the first month, I did notice my hair growing annoyingly quickly.
3/ Then last Wednesday was my third session, and Zahira told me she noticed a ton of new hair. I didn’t really believe her…

Until a few days later, I looked at my hairline and saw this:

Short, barely noticeable, but really there—and really new—3–5 mm hairs. Apparently they’re all over my scalp. I’M SUPER HAPPY.

Isn’t it crazy to think about the things that become precious to us as we age?
I never gave a thought to my hairline before my fifties.

Vitality lies in so many details, and it’s for us to decide what we’re okay letting go of (maybe Botox?) and what we want to hold on to for dear life.

How is your hair doing? Please share anything you know.
For anyone going through the same thing—we’re in this together!

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In my last Letter I talked about the weird, unexpected things that happen when your dreams come true.

In my last Note, I talked about having zero Botox on my face, and why it feels good!

This is the link to our last live!

Big kisses!!!

I have to admit something slightly embarrassing.

Not to sound dramatic—but after twenty years online, I feel like social media might have vacuumed out huge chunks of my personality.

Okay that was dramatic. I had always thought visually, and I have nothing against the online world… And yet. After all these years I’m afraid that my imagination had slowly morphed into a social media mood board. I feel as if some parts of my life were no longer being lived, so much as anticipated as stories. Experiences became aesthetics before they even became experiences.

And the craziest part?
I would never have known.

Until I got a garden.

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LITTLE SISTER TO THE RESCUE
“For fuck’s sake. It’s just a garden. Mistakes are allowed.”

I spent my life on my computer or in airport hallways, traversing destinations. Entire years were spent arriving someplace, capturing it, sharing it, then leaving before it was time to truly enter reality. Experiencing life was… Consuming it. Which, to be fair to my poor little self, isn’t just my pathology. It’s modern life.

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I haven’t done any Botox for months, and my face is fully operational.
I’ve just been too busy with life, and beauty has been the least of my concerns.

So times passed and I…

Quite like it, even though I can see that a few more months of this and my frown line will be as deep as Emrata’s cleavage. Then you might see me sprinting to the first injector I find.

But I like feeling natural, even if it means that I do look older.

I don’t really know what “looking young” means for a woman my age anyway.

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I think that over-pumping with fillers and over-freezing with Botox creates a certain type of face. A face that was already slightly confusing about fifteen years ago, but now betrays a middle-aged woman who is negotiating very intensely with time.

To me, there’s a threshold. Your forties are a great decade to experiment with trying to look thirty. By fifty, though, something has got to give—you have to let age in.

I don’t want to look thirty forever. Also I know I don’t. Even though it’s not always easy getting older, I’d like to embody my age. I respect every woman’s choice, and actually think a good facelift is sometimes the best option.

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Maybe I’ll do it one day, but right now I like the de-freeze, and I’d like to look like one of these mature women who walk the Chanel show. Unbothered by their aging. Like they don’t need to be reassured about who they are. At home in their skin.

I’m happy that I’m getting there. It took a while to free myself of that pressure to be young. I still succumb to it sometimes.

But today, as long as I feel fresh and radiate good energy, that’s beautiful enough for me.

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In my last Letter, I shared 15 reasons that make me completely undateable. And why it’s a fabulous achievement!

In my last Note, I shared 10 little new things that have been making life feel good lately.

This is the link to our last live!

Nothing to sell you today—but I don’t say it enough: I’m always super happy when you support the newsletter and subscribe, to the free of paid version.

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Thank youuuuu! <3

Big kisses!!!

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Hello from Paris, where I’m spending a few days before heading back to Marrakech to tend to my proverbial garden. My birthday week has been challenging—it feels like the Universe is reorganizing my life.
For my own good, but slightly against my will.

That hasn’t stopped me from spending quality time with my friends. Or from getting excited about the small things that make life fun.

Here are ten little new things.

1/ A BUCKET HAT.

Gah, this one is so chic, and I think it’ll be quite effective against the Marrakech sunshine—it basically covers my whole face. The best part is that you can just throw it in your bag when you don’t need it, it doesn’t get smashed. So it’s not just cool, it’s also super functional.

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2/ A BOOK.

This one made me so happy. It’s Sarah’s first book who, if you remember, decorated my LA house. Working with her was such a joy —I LOVE her!— and flipping through the pages of her gorgeous book made me realize how talented she’s been at crafting her own creative language and built an entire business around it while staying completely herself.

3/ A PAIR OF EARRINGS.

I know when something is about to become a super favorite, and these are it. They’re an instant classic, and just like my Monica Vinader, you’re going to see me wear them a lot.

4/ A SUNSCREEN.

A new absolute favorite in my sunscreen rotation. It’s SPF50, the formula is light and gorgeous under my foundation. I really love it.

5/ A REGRET.

When I got to the Acne Paper Gallery at the Palais Royal, is was closed. So I had to view the The Women Of René Bouché exhibition through the window. It was still so inspiring. Go for me if you’re in Paris!

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6/ A RESTAURANT.

Not new to Paris, but new to me—and I have no excuse, as I live three minutes away from it. Believe it or not, I’m not crazy about sushi. I think I’ve eaten so many bad ones that I’d forgotten what good sushi tastes like. But this… This is GOOD. Go to Oiji. It’s incredible.

7/ A STRAW BAG.

It looks artisanal because it is, but I bought it in Saint-Germain-Des-Prés. A bit like the hat, I bought it because I wanted something easy and practical. I needed the handles to be large enough to carry it on my shoulder. It’s lined inside, with pockets. It’s the perfect size, not precious, a perfect carry-all. And I think that it will age well.

8/ A STORE.

I couldn’t wait to go to Papier Royal, the new stationery store imagined by Ramdane Touhami, the genius behind Officine Universelle Buly. It’s beautiful, and I love all the engraving options, but I’m slightly disappointed by the offer. It’s mostly a few notebooks and some pens. I adore stationery stores and was dreaming of treasures—maybe when they get a bigger space, they can do that for me?

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9/ A SWIMSUIT.

This collab between Sézane and Ysé is super flattering—and this is coming from someone who’s not done more than 4hrs of exercise in the last four months. Putting it on made me happy, and got me dreaming of my pool, which right now looks like this… ooops.

10/ AN OUTFIT.

This is my ideal outfit right now. I love a light jacket in this season—when I’m not ready to go full tank top out. Also, bermudas are the best, and after three years of resisting them, I think I’m ready for a (very small) heeled flip flop. Finally, this bag is just so good. You can find all the items in my closet, right here.

11 (BONUS!) / A THOUGHT.

Transformation takes years and it goes through phases. If you, like me, are going through one of these phases that force you to shed the old to make place for the new, don’t forget to do two things. Give space to the tangible, the action, the practical, and when you’re in that mode, don’t let emotions filter through.

And then at night maybe, or early mornings, or when you’re in trusted company, let go. Start working on the emotional clean up. Cry it out. Write it down. Philosophize with your friends. Craft the story you will tell yourself about the challenges you’re going though. This work will take the longest, but, in the end, it’s the most enjoyable. And the most beautiful—it’s giving meaning.

Oh and don’t worry for me! I’m totally fine. It’s just life being life. I’ll tell you about all of it soon enough.

Love,

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In my last Letter, I shared fifteen reasons that make me completely undateable. And why it’s a fabulous achievement!

This is the link to our last live, and let’s meet again next week, May 13th at 6PM Paris time, just here.

Big kisses!!!

I’ve become undateable. It took years of work, and I’m very proud of it.

Not that I’m dating. But my friends are, and we’re talking about this a lot. How do you date today? How do you do relationships? How do you build a life with someone when you’ve already built your life? Separate bedrooms? Separate bathrooms? Separate apartments? Separate continents?

Without going that far and deep—we talk a lot about dating.

I had already realized, in my early forties, that I was an odd object on the dating shelf. I was still dateable enough by then—though a lot of it was on the account of pretending I was absolutely normal and totally easygoing. Doing everything I could to fit in, and to be chosen.

But there is a certain point in life, which has to do less with age and more with emotional maturity, when you don’t really want to be chosen anymore. F@%ck being chosen.

All you want is to choose.

And if you read until the end, you’ll understand this is the absolute best thing you can do. But before we get there—15 lessons. None of them easy, all of them worth it.

Two apologies before we begin: this is entirely heterocentric, which I regret—but that’s what I know. And I use the word f@#k several times. Which I don’t regret—because sometimes, it’s just what you need.

—

1/ Start noticing patterns early.

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I’m having the weirdest of weeks. I woke up Monday with a case of the feminine rage and had fights with everything on my way—my car, my bra, my husband included—only tempered with tear sessions with my girlfriends where I howled to the moon (though it was 9 am)(which is now prime time for me) about how unfair life was and why did EVERYONE only want to take, take, take.

(Don’t they, though?)

[Apparently Tauruses are coming out of an seven year mess so maybe it’s just Uranus repositioning with a splash?!]

It wasn’t long before I figured out I was PMSing like a teenager, which in itself is unfair. PMSing so hard, at my age? WTF? Time for HRT. (how do you like my acronym dropping?)

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ANYWAY, in these times of struggle, you need one good outfit and this week it’s this one. It is comfortable, easy but sophisticated and just cool, if I may say so myself. It’s the winning formula for picking fights with everyone spring.

Mesh flats, ballon pants (they’re everywhere! I love them!) and a light jacket which almost makes it look like I have a waist. I don’t.

Just got off the phone with my friend who literally just told me “please call back, j’ai une angoisse de taré today” (I have a mad anxiety today) so I think I’m not the only one. Supporting you if you too are going through this!

Anyway this was just a PSA to say hi, to tell you that BOILING RAGE happens the the best of us (uhuh), and also that I like my outfit. Please leave me a comment if you’re like me. Cheers!!!

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In my last Letter, I talk about how, after years of searching for myself everywhere—I finally found the thread. A lot of you told me this newsletter really hit a chord!!!

This is the link to our last live—as usual, such a great, great chat about LIFE with you guys.

Right now, Doré is celebrating Earth Day with 25% off La Crème Refill with code REFILL25 <3

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I was driving through the long, straight avenues of Marrakech. Rare thing, everything was quiet. Pristine day. Moisturized skin. Quiet mind.

It all felt slightly unreal.

A new life, once again. Enough. I’ve searched for myself relentlessly, sometimes comically, trying to find who I was in every way possible. Work, places. Men, men, men. The possibility of becoming someone else felt much more exciting than being who I already was.

Until it didn’t.

This is about what happened when I stopped searching.

PART 1 / The One You Leave Behind

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Paris, April 2026.

Today, I’m writing the way I write on my main group chat. It’s called Le Chat, and it’s an ongoing text chain with multiple girlfriends about unfinished thoughts, beauty treatments, coupled AND single life ambivalences but also wonder, self-development, business, plane tickets and some “should I buy this.”

So here we are. First issue. And I have many. Uhuh.

The Actress

It was lunchtime in Paris and I was roaming around my neighborhood trying to find something quick and healthy to eat—the most difficult thing in Paris’ 7th arrondissement it appears, oh how I miss Sweet Green—when suddenly I saw this “woman of a certain age” and, for some reason, our eyes locked.

She had grey hair in a sort of chaotic nest above her head, dirty glasses slipping sideways, a completely bare face with an expression which seemed like it was taking hold. She was wearing ill-fitting clothes and, well. You get the idea. She looked a mess.

Something ticked in my mind. I recognized her.

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Anybody who know me know that I’ve always dreamed of being a farmer. I’ve tried a few times—and failed each time. Each time realizing I love the idea very much, and the execution not at all.

Mainly, I like the outfits.

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Well, it seems I’ve found myself, once again, with a farm project.
But this time, I’m declaring: I’m sticking to it.

And I do have a few outfits.

Here’s what I’m going to wear on repeat—in the country, and in the city.

1/ THE PANTS

My favorite pants this season are oversized—and look perfect with a cool belt.

2/ THE BELT

I love that belts are making a comeback—they make a simple outfit pop.
Here are my favorites this season.

3/ THE JACKET

Needed for spring days—even in Morocco—I love this kind of everything jacket.

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4 / THE STRAW BAG

Nothing is more fun than straw or raffia bags. They’re chic, they carry everything, they’re a no-brainer—and you can find them at any price point.

5/ THE HAT

I’ve had to get serious in that department. Baseball caps don’t cut it—they only protect the forehead.

This one isn’t great looking—I found at the market, but it’s been so helpful I want to invest in one or two from the selection below.

What I love about a fabric hat over straw is that when I’m indoors, I can just fold it and throw it in my basket.

All right, that’s my shopping for now. Soon I’ll be back in Paris—but I think I’ll stay this casual and easy, because that’s really all I want to wear right now.

Gros bisous!

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In my last Letter, I busted a few myths about the ‘90s, and what we can learn from them.

In my last Note, I shared everything about my hair.

This is the link to our last live!

Right now, my favorite brand Doré is having a spring sale! Take 25% off any single items with code SPRING25 until Sunday.

I regret to inform you that I barely have any photos of myself from the 90s.

It is very sad, as I would have loved to join the choir of the whole “I was there” trend, with photos of myself in clubs, wearing tiny tee-shirts, looking waify and disinterested (THE attitude of the times). But either I was too cool to take any photos, or I didn’t look waify or disinterested at all, and therefore, had to hide any proof of my existence pre-internet—I’ll let you guess.

I’m not sure how many of you are watching Love Story, the TV show about the Carolyn Bessette–JFK Jr. tragedy, but my algorithm has been buzzing with it: a mélange of real photos of the couple in the 90s mixed with images from the show, a dismayed Daryl Hannah, and some people “who were there” coming out with “never seen before” photos and dubious revelations.

All this for a show which is an idealization—not only of the story itself, but of the world it took place in.

Right now, some of my contemporaries call me to say, “hey, remember how great it was?” which I sometimes suspect is just a way to one-up the new generations while we, Gen X, are slowly on our way to replace the boomers.

But back to the show. It’s not finished airing yet, but the suspense is obviously in reverse—you already know what happens, and that’s why, instead of rushing towards the ending, all you want to do is to slow down the inevitable.

I need to say it right here: underneath the judgmental snob I sometimes present, hides a little girl who can’t get enough of beautiful, complicated love stories. Heroines who sacrifice themselves for The Idea of the Great Man (I’ve done that time and again myself)…

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And above all—anything aesthetic. Needless to say, I LOVE the show. And aesthetic it is…

1/ Every scene takes place at sunset, which would make even eating packed sandwiches at a gas station in New Jersey look romantic. I’ve decided that from now on I only want to live my life backlit, at sunset.

2/ The soundtrack is very smart—the same theme returns every time our two lovebirds come close, giving an intoxicating sense of inevitability.

3/ They are both gorgeous, and even though the main actress’s mouth-biting and affected pauses can get truly irritating at times, her outfits and her luscious hair are a pleasure to watch.

Which brings me to my first point. It’s more like a hot take—and this might be controversial, but here you go.

—

I don’t think JFK Jr. had such great taste.
To make matters worse, I’ll add another hot take.

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If you’re sometimes wondering wether you should cut your hair, here are a few things to know, generously illustrated (you’re welcome!) with photos of myself.

PART 1

LONG-ish, curly.

I wanted to be this romantic-chic-spiritual lady that I’m probably not—this never really worked. All these are selfies where I try really hard to look pretty: IRL it was often a disaster, like on the last photo.

I know that I should have stuck it out and grown it longer, past the weird shoulder length—but by that time, I had realized it wasn’t for me.

LONG-ish, straight.

Meh. Do you agree? The second photo was the best I ever ever looked with long hair, and it was in Scotland after a rain storm. It was half-wet.

I feel like straight long hair makes my face go down, down, down.

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LONG-ish, totally natural.

“Natural is always best!” people say. Yes. So I’ve tried it. Can you see how uncomfortable I am in that photo?

It’s just… I really, really, REALLY don’t like it. I feel so NOT me.

Why is long hair not really working for me, a theory.

1/ I just don’t have a fabulous hair texture.
To me, very long hair has to be very beautiful hair.

2/ Without the sharpness of a shorter cut, my soft features (I don’t have a strong brow, a statement mouth or a designer cheekbone, alas) plus the softness brought by the extra hair makes my features look, well… Soft and undefined.

One day, my mom, my sister, AND my husband had an intervention. They told me to stop with my long hair experiment. I obliged.

Also, THE TRUTH IS, when it was long, it was back almost everyday.

This is my favorite hairstyle. It could be my only hairstyle for the rest of my life, and I’d be very happy. One day, a friend had told me “oh, you and I, we’re “hair back girls”” and I think she was right.

I just feel like I look best with my hair out of my face. It’s sharper, clean, I don’t need to touch it, or wonder how’s it’s looking as I’m speaking to someone.

Unfortunately, you can’t pull your hair back for years. It really takes a toll on your hairline, and over the last few years, I’d felt my hair getting thinner. I couldn’t keep pulling.

So I cut it.

PART II

MID-LENGTHS, long-ish

Looks okaaaay-ish in photos—except for the third one, eeeeeek, eeeeew. Second photo: cute. In reality: Lord Farquad.

MID-LENGTHS, short.

Oh please. See the middle photo? That’s my nightmare, and I’m not talking about the bread mustache. With that length, the nightmare was my reality most of the time. Pouffy at the bottom, flat on top.

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Why the mid-lengths are not working for me, a theory.

It has to do with hair density—I have much more hair (and it’s really dense and curly) in the back of the head than on top (where it’s softer and straighter).
After drying, my hair flattens immediately at the top, but over the hours of a day, the back and sides get puffier and puffier, giving me the dreaded Lord Farquad look.

Which is also why, in another chapter of GARANCE AND HER HAIR, which you’ll be dying to follow, I’ll tell you about doing PRP, which is supposed to help with hair thinning. I still have a good amount of hair but it’s for prevention. I did my first session yesterday, and I will report!

Anyway mid lengths were just okay, so one day, I chopped it off.

PART III

SHORT

In my thirties my short hair were a sort of a signature. Then I wanted to leave my thirties behind and become a romantic-chic-spiritual lady. I even tried to live in Georgian England for a while. That’s when I did all the hair-xperimentations (sorry, couldn’t help!) above. And after a long and winding road, I’m back, but I’m not the same, so I want something different and softer.

Right now, I’m debating if I keep bangs (photo 3, 5 and 7) or do longer locks in the front (photo 1)—the good thing with short hair is that I can have it all it: it grows out so quickly.

My fear is photo number 8, because on bad days it can make me look like a an old boy OR a French middle-aged woman who just got a divorce and is reinventing herself in Morocco, which I am all these things—except for the divorce—but that’s not the story I want my hair to tell about me.

So when I can’t cope, I gel it back and look like a fashion fixture again (so easy).

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SO, SHOULD YOU CUT YOUR HAIR?

3 THINGS IF YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT IT:

Short hair is about hair quality and bone structure. It definitely helps create an architecture around the face, which can be great to make delicate, softer features come to life. In other words, it gives an energy.

It takes a bit of work to truly figure out what works, because there are hundreds of ways to wear your hair short. It’s super creative. If it has enough length, one short haircut can be styled a ton of ways.

It gives an edge to any outfit, creates a unique look and is definitely an excellent way to “become a different person.” (do we ever)

Things to know about short hair, the bad.

1/ Remember that these photos are my hair at its best so I’ll trust you just to imagine it at its worst.
2/ Know that waking up when you have short hair is rarely sexy.
3/ If you—like me—are terrified of looking like a man, know that the thought definitely pops up, sometimes. Jewelry and make up become your best friends.

Things to know about short hair, the good.

1/ You’ll gain an immediate personality even if you have none.
2/ It’s really much, much easier than long hair.
3/ In my case, my hair looks healthiest when short. It’s shiny, no split ends, and even when it gets a bit greasy, it’s kind of cool.

Lastly. Your hairdresser becomes your best friend because you have to go more often than with long hair, which I actually like.

I recently found my new best friend in Paris, following a reader’s advice (thank you Julia!) his name is William at Maison Crinière (sorry Julia if I just ruined our secret!) and in London, it’s Jonny, he’s sooooooo good and kind and fun. I adore them both.

Oh no. I thought I would keep it short and fun and here we are overflowing again. Tell me what you think of my hair, bangs or longer in the front? Let me know if you have any questions, and tell me if you’ve ever thought of going short!

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In my last Letter, I talk about what is quiet luxury to me.

In my last Note, I share ten new things!

This is our last live.

Let’s meet again next week, on Wednesday at 6PM Paris time. Let me know if you need help tuning in.

At Doré, we launched two new incredible serums!!! They are formulated with a proprietary blend of silk peptides and natural ingredients that deliver visible transformation but do not irritate or sensitize your skin. Both are exclusive to Ulta Beauty and you can learn more about them here: Peptides Extreme Fermeté and Peptides Bouclier Intégral. I love them!

Quiet luxury has been ruined. What began as a genuinely brilliant idea became a TikTok trend, then a meme, then a Zara collection.

But true quiet luxury really is so good. It’s understated and refined. It’s rare and personal. It’s occasionally absurd. And it almost never comes cheap—though cheap doesn’t always mean money. Let’s see…

—

1. No apologies.

Luxury is feeling like you belong exactly where you are. It might trigger a reaction in others, and that’s not a good reason to change anything.

—

2. Time? Better—and more mysterious—than a Birkin.

Example? Deciding that one day a week is off.

“Oh, I don’t work on Wednesdays” and not explaining why—or how you can afford it.

Other fantastically luxurious things I’ve heard:

“I don’t take any appointments before 11pm.” “I don’t go out after 7.” “I always take August.” Something in me bristles when I hear these. Who are they to— And then I stop. Could I do the same?

—

3. Taking ten years to do what others do in one.

Not feeling bad about it, not even questioning it.

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Our woman was sitting on the floor of her apartment in Paris.

She had had one of these weeks—nothing had gone how it was supposed to. Everything she had tried, big and small: failures. Her assistant had given her notice. She had fired someone she loved, and been rejected by something she’d hoped for.

Her washer had broke down and she had lost her favorite lipstick.

She’d caught a glimpse of her jawline in a mirror and had done a double take. Was this going to be her now? Was the slight laxity about to become a permanent feature on her face?

Why was everything crumbling? She asked herself as she took a sip of her cocktail.

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