Pas Chic

As I emptied out of the FDR Metro in the handsome Eighth Arrondisement, I opened up the magazine I'd found on the train and used it to cover my hair. The booklet for exotic vacations in some sunny Greek peninsula was holding up well in the drizzle, though my new haircut was not. My efforts to straighten it were wasted in the humidity and wind. My black wool coat was hanging on by one hastily fastened button.

"It would be my pleasure, but too bad I guess," said a man I passed who was equally unprepared for this weather. The fur on his mostly bald head was fluttering without an umbrella. I laughed and shrugged. At least he had offered to share his hypothetical rain coverage. It was sweet.

I had warned Jas in advance that I was under dressed, and now with my flyaway hair and runny nose it was a sure thing.

"I don't own anything business chic," I had said on her voicemail, "So I look like a librarian with too much cleavage instead."

Indeed, my brown boots underneath my A line below the knee skirt was not shabby with a brown satin camisole and complimenting sweater but it was not what I would consider chic. It's a problem I've had since I've moved here, battling with the Parisian Femmes who somehow manage to always look like they were dropped out of a magazine ad, even if they haven't showered in days. Alas I am not on the hunt for men and not looking to become a member of the Paris Elite so, to be perfectly honest, I didn't really care what I looked like. I thought only briefly about being accepted for dress code.

That is, until I got to the bar. On the street people were lined up on the sidewalks chatting on their cell phones and smoking. Each one was head to toe in black, some with an accent of white, but suddenly my navy skirt was devoid of class completely. The bar itself was heavily guarded by ear-pieced bouncers ushering people down a red carpet. At then end of the velvet ropes was a video camera.

I walked confidently up to the man on the side walk. A full head shorter than me, I towered over him in his suit.

"I'm on the list -" I started to say.

"No, I'm sorry," he said in French.

I thought for a moment that he didn't understand my French, or perhaps he didn't hear me. I tried again.

"No, I'm on the list."

"No, I'm sorry Miss you can't come in. The attire is 'Business Chic'", and he moved onto the next person.

Stunned I stood back for a moment, not sure what to do. I had never been turned down at any door, not in my whole life. Everything I had thought that evening about what I was wearing suddenly didn't matter. I wasn't chic enough? Oh no. Not me.

I marched back to the front of the line where grumpy dwarf was turning away another perfectly acceptable couple.

"Excuse me," I started in French, "How is what I am wearing not chic enough?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, "But now you know for the next time."

I had heard him speaking english to someone else and so I knew that he could understand it. I dove right in.

"Listen, I've been watching who you let in and I would just like to know how what I am wearing is not chic enough compared to these others? Is it not white enough? Not black enough? What?"

"It eez not beezness cheeck," he replied unapologetically, "I am soorry."

"But how is that chic but what I am wearing not?" I said to a woman wearing leggings as pants and a crumpled linen tunic. I see sixteen year olds in the same outfit every day on the Metro, pouting.

"Weeell," he said, "She know somebodee eer."

"Yes, but I know somebody here. I am on the list."

I was well aware that my snotty attitude was not going to get me in the door, but at this point it was more of a battle of principal. The people I saw going in were not of interest to me, I just wanted to prove to this short man with a complex that was, in fact chic enough.

Suddenly wee mans voice changed, deepened and I recognized immediately a smooth American accent.

"Look," he said, "The invitation said 'Business Chic'."

"What does that mean? I'm a beautiful young woman, what is so wrong with what I am wearing?"

"I'm sorry, don't take it personally. I've been given very specific directions. People who come in here need to be dressed to impress."

"What is that?" I demanded. Behind us a woman in jeans and a teeshirt was let in. An overtanned designer suited man grasped her exclaiming in French "THERE is the PRINCESS".

"She's wearing JEANS!"

"Well," said the Midget in a Monkey Suit, "She is a special guest. You are welcome to stand here all night, but you are not coming in."

He switched his accent back to false French and turned down yet another nicely dressed couple.

For awhile I did stand there, watching people going in, plotting who I could befriend and stroll in with arm and arm. I even tried lying profusely, saying that I had just flown in from New York, exclusively for this event and as a famous writer / artist they would be sorry to have not let me in. At one point a nice American man overheard me and asked if I wanted to go in with them and we tried, but Short Stuff would have none of it. In the end I called Jas who came outside, as incensed as I, and rescued me from starting a fight.

On the way to our Favorite Bar On The Planet, we laughed about how not chic I was and how underdressed most of the people inside had been. I felt bad for dragging her away from her event, but knew deep down that we weren't missing much. Over coifed men and fake-and-bake women do not appeal to me as fun, nor as chic. They are the "pretty" face of Paris, but Jas and I, we are bombshells. We are beauty with a side of class wrapped up in humor and fun, and a tall glass of intelligence and wit to boot. Chic ain't got nothing on us.