There’s something about French girls that feels almost unfair. As if they were born with a quiet manual the rest of us never received. They somehow know how to look great even on their worst days. Feminine without trying to be sexy. Chic without being polished. Magnetic without being loud. No heavy makeup, no performance, no urgency to be desired – just presence.

Lately, that presence has become my icon. My current ideal. The nonchalant French girl who knows exactly what she’s doing and doesn’t need anything fake to feel bomb. 💣 It didn’t really start with a haircut, but the haircut made it visible. My hair was damaged, tired, overworked, so I cut it. A refresh on the surface, but underneath it felt like a reset. A quiet decision to let go of something that no longer felt like me.

In therapy, my therapist asked why the change, why the cut. I gave her the practical answer first – damaged hair, a need for refresh. Then the real one followed almost without thinking: I don’t feel like a sex symbol anymore, I feel like a French girl. She smiled and said it was interesting, because French girls somehow just know how to look feminine and magnificent even without makeup. And that, she said, is a sex symbol itself.

That sentence stayed with me. Somewhere along the way, we got it wrong. We learned that femininity had to be loud, perfected, exaggerated, consumable. That being desirable meant being constantly on, constantly performing softness, beauty, effort. Filtered, polished, explained. We didn’t lose our sensuality – we outsourced it. Overthought it. We got lobotomized.

The French girl doesn’t ask for permission to be attractive. She doesn’t chase validation or perform confidence. She doesn’t try to be effortless – she simply allows things to be a little undone. She walks, exists, lets herself take up space without apology. And that’s exactly where I find myself right now.

I’ve been strolling through Prague with a new camera, capturing small moments – a coat falling just right, messy hair in cold air, a beret, reflections in windows, quiet streets. No posing, no trying, just observing. Just being. I think I’ve found myself in this look, in this energy. Less “look at me,” more “I know.” Less sex symbol, more woman. And paradoxically, that feels more powerful than anything I’ve worn before.

I met an old friend the other day. We chatted for a bit, nothing deep, just life in passing. And when we said goodbye, he paused, looked at me, and said: “Wow, I love this era for you. Very ‘I cut my hair and remembered who I am.’ Chic, reflective, a little rebellious. Very French-girl-who-knows.” And honestly, that might be the most accurate mirror I’ve been handed in a long time.

XO, Zuzi