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The secrets of ze French Maman

I've written about the different species of Dubai mummy before but the vote is that this endlessly fascinating topic is worth a revisit. Having previously touched on Hummer Mom, the Glamazon and the Dubai Sloane, it's time to examine ze French Maman:

FM will NEVER be seen wearing Birkenstocks or flipflops, her feet are shod in nothing less than ballet pumps or chic leather sandals. She would rather die than wear sweatpants, ratty shorts or a top bursting with cleavage - her understated shift dresses are made of 100% natural fibre (linen or Broiderie Anglaise being the top favorites) with subtle, yet witty, detailing, so well cut that most of us would need a second mortgage to come close to the same effect.

FM wouldn't dream of leaving the house without a perfectly blow-dried sleek bob, if her hair colour isn't au naturel we would never be able to guess - Debbie Harry style roots, frizz, split ends or 'funky' colours are alien concepts. Nor does FM pile on the slap, with a beauty routine this vigorous (regular state-of-the-art facials and non-invasive cosmetic procedures, mani-pedis, cellulite oils, exfoliation, massage, eyebrow threading, eyelash dyeing, waxing, etc) she can get away with just a sweep of mascara and a slick of lip-gloss. Her shins are never bristly and her limbs are glossy and flawless, never overtanned. Her perfume is never overstated. She is ALWAYS pin thin and she holds her stomach in and her head up at all times; the gauche teenage-esque slouch indulged in by less vigorous women is an anathema to her.

In short, FM is too good to be true. Lesser female mortals wilt in her presence, then try desperately hard to make friends in the hope her gloss will rub off on them (but don't bother to try too hard as FM can only truly relate to other FMs cut from the same cloth, the females of non-French nations being far too scruffy for her to take seriously). Men blush and puff out their chests then look critically at their wives: the crows-feet, generous bosoms and slightly bohemian tendencies of their life partners suddenly seeming much less endearing than before.

FM's secret? An iron-clad will, her husband's large salary and an arsenal of tricks learnt at her Maman's knee. Let's face it, it would be foolish to compete...

Tomorrow - The Trophy Wife

Comments

Anonymous said…
We can't compete - only admire the time and money that has gone into this image. Many French women are refusing to have children for fear of the dreadful Muffin Tummy Anglais Disease. Or the Mammary Baby Overload (again Anglais disease). And French women would rather their husband (rich) visited their mistress than sully their temple of a body, preferring to be wined (only a little pleeze!) and dined (ditto) by their hairdresser (gay, of course, so no hanky-panky). What can one do but admire such incredible women - like Carla, they are just waiting for a Sarko to complete their dream!
YLM said…
Anon, so true. Carla, despite being of Italian origin, channels ze French woman beautifully, from her round-toed flats to her deliciously understated couture. I forgot to mention that overwhelming confidence, stemming from the unshakeable belief in French superiority over every other nation on earth, is also core to the Femme Fatale's being, and possibly the essence of her power over the male species - after all, confidence goes a long, long way. Vive la France!

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