The Power of a (French) Woman

It seems that there are two types of French women: those who groom their hair and those who just let it grow, the latter forming the majority. Of course, there exists the hairy arm-pitted stereotype of a French girl, who despite her waify figure, hazel eyes and seductive lingerie, unfortunately has hair sprouting from beneath her arms, making her instantly unattractive to red blooded men across the Channel. But in France, men don't seem to mind their women highly sexual even if they do have secret hairs in the intimate caverns of their armpits...

Perhaps it is the fact that French women are already so utterly seductive with the way their lips have to move to pronounce and annunciate each musical word of the French language, or the way that they insist on wearing stockings as part of usual underwear protocol? French women ooze sexiness. They eat well, they drink well, they think well. They are petite powerful dominatrices who speak with unquestionable self assurance. Some even have very dark expressive eyebrows that can silence any man with the roar of their silent thunder, whereas others have several pairs of stilettos which have the sole purpose of intimidating men whilst simultaneously turning them into quivering horn dogs.

Like this one:

Even those French ladies with pinched sharp noses, slick pony tails and obnoxious oversized handbags share the same secret with those same French women with fuzzy moustaches and frizzy manes of untameable curls...that unmentioned secret that French women are the ones who really hold the cards. At least, when it comes to hair management, it is the women who make the final decision on what has to go.

Yes, the French woman is a very powerful force to be reckoned with. French men get what they are given, their opinions on armpit hair are not given so much as a nanoseconds' thought. My friend encapsulated it perfectly the other day when I asked her about it, "I shave if I want to shave, if I don't want to, then tough. My decision."

Can you smell the poison with which that sentence was laced? I could! That is the subtle scare factor of French women. You can see it in Sarkozy's eyes when he looks up at Carla Bruni - her smile may be sweet, but like all French women, she knows she has the power.

She's already wearing flat shoes for you Sarkozy - you have no right to ask her to shave!

Despite being a Paris Poodle, I am of course, still undeniably English. And for that I have never allowed myself to see my armpit hairs, as I employ the Daily Shave Prevention Measure. Nonetheless, with my musings on the power that armpit hair has given to French women, I am for the first time tempted to grow wild and free and try to cultivate the advantages of the French Ladies Power Pit...

So here's the question - to shave or not to shave...?

Images from: http://www.eatfrenchbread.com/underarm-hair/
http://galadarling.com/images/08-10/parisian.jpg

The Secret Math of the Famous French Figure

It’s a Paris Poodle duty to discover the well kept secrets and rituals that only French women know to render them so irresistibly effortlessly sexy – another of my duties is to find a concrete, semi scientific reason why French women can stay so rakish whilst simultaneously having Europe’s highest baguette count?...

Here are my findings so far...

(0 Gym + 0 work out video) – exertion of any kind = Tiny, toned, slim French Mademoiselles

All across the nation, from Nice to Nantes, French women don’t exercise, they aren’t seen in high numbers jogging in local parks, the Ministry of Sound work out DVDs are frowned upon (perhaps rightly so!), and they certainly don’t go to the gym! Gyms hardly even exist over here and when they do they are painfully expensive and are seen as sweaty work houses – the type of place a jeune fille française or ‘Madame de’ doesn’t belong...

After only a few weeks, already I have been to half the underwear shops in Rue de Rennes, Place d’Italie and Les Gobelins with my effortlessly sex kittenish French flat mates who see underwear window shopping, as normal a past time as running, aerobics or painting ones nails....
This strictly French phenomena of lusting after costly lingerie as a means of relaxation is certainly seductive. Just picturing the female form in various combinations of silk, satin and lace not only makes you feel super feminine and whole heartedly glad that as a member of the female race you can wear such flirtatious clothing, but it also has the added advantage of suppressing the appetite. It has become clear to this Paris Poodle that Lingerie Lust is a national female sport -welcome to the French workout - the typically français way to be fabulously slim!

As I wondered the shelves and rails of Soleil et Sucre, Aubade and Etam, meandering the Parisian streets with my always too heavy, always trop des choses handbag to ‘se detendre’ (unwind) amongst the French knickers and lace bras of the top underwear designers I began to believe that it is the perfect way to stay toned and commit to a low calorie diet so that one can wear such tiny frivolous creations. This regime is best practiced twice a week (with a heavy handbag/small child or some other weight) with a daily half hour round trip to the bakery and back to pick up 2 baguettes – one for ce soir and one for the morning of course!

The Paris Poodle has come to believe that French baguettes have slimming powers – even the tiniest scraps of French ladies insist upon thrice daily portions of bread baguettes with heart stopping quantities of butter! It truly is a marvel. Perhaps I will simply surround myself with lithe French girls until some of their weight gaining defences become mine by the power of osmosis.

So, from these results the Paris Poodle can conclude that; Baguettes + Butter x Lingerie Shopping= Size 0

Although not strictly exercise related, even my little French bathroom has not escaped the French love of les fasses (buttocks). It has been decorated in a haphazard style with various lingerie adverts. As I sit on the loo to ‘faire pipi’ I am affronted by two perfectly peachy arse cheeks and just to my left generous cleavage greets me wearing a lacy creation. Perhaps it’s just my flat mates but I like to think that it’s the French nation that is unashamedly fascinated by the female form, its curves and shapes.

As long as women are women they will competitively try to out slim and out sexify each other. Since arriving here I have had to find new alternative ways to feel my normal taille - in this city my slim size 10 is practically monstrous amongst the size zerolites that inhabit Paris en masse. As a Paris Poodle I have resolved to up my handbag weight by 2 kilos, my baguette intake to 3 a day, my lingerie lusting to 4 times a week and a monthly tour of the Champs Elysees to exercise my credit cards! You should try it too! It’s so much more elegant than the perspiration humiliation of the gym- je t’assure. Vive la France!