In every country, women have their own secrets for how to stay young and beautiful. But French women have the most natural charm in the world because they somehow manage to look 18 at the age of 42, like Audrey Tautou. Of course there are no universal tips that can help everyone, but French women definitely have some useful habits that help them stay charming at any age.
Bright Side has discovered the secrets of the beauty routine that almost all French women follow.
12. They don’t use contouring.
French women don’t like contouring because it hides the natural features of the face and looks unnatural. What they do love is a little bronzer on the cheeks to make themselves look fresh and shiny.
11. They don’t mind imperfection.
If you take a closer look at French women and their style, you will notice that almost all of them prefer a little messiness. It may be about hair, it may be about their accessories, like a scarf, or the way their clothes are sewn. This allows them to look natural and free, as if they don’t do anything special to look beautiful.
10. They prefer red lips.
You can always brighten up your appearance by using red lipstick. Women from Paris are completely convinced of this: it does not matter what your style is, you could be wearing torn jeans and a T-shirt or a dress with a huge hat. But adding red lipstick will immediately elevate any look.
9. They don’t get French manicures.
True French women never have “the perfect manicure” that took several hours to apply. Because this would send the message that you actually had to spend an immense amount of time, and money, on something so small.
Parisian women think that it is unnecessary, because they were already born beautiful and they are not going to spend hours on something so trivial. So, the most popular nail style among French women is short nails with clear polish or no polish at all. The same goes for their pedicure.
8. They have a hair styling secret.
French women prefer to not damage their hair and they don’t use a hair dryer or a flat iron every day. They mostly use expensive products — all of them have their favorite hair masks, and oil for their hair, and also a good hairbrush made of natural materials.
This is what they do to hair in France: they wash it and let it dry without a hair dryer, and the next day, when it becomes smooth, they style it.
7. Their makeup bag is not full of products.
French women have only 2 lipsticks: one natural color, and a red one for a great mood or an evening out.
They choose a light powder and a foundation to make their skin shine. But they don’t reapply it every hour, mostly so they don’t look like a wall with plaster on it. Healthy skin is supposed to shine just a little. They consider this is beautiful and natural.
Eye makeup only means mascara on the eyelashes. In the evening, they might add a messy, smoky eye effect. But it is supposed to be imperfect with that French element of messiness.
So, the 6 products in a French woman’s bag include: a good foundation, a powder with a shine, a mascara, an eyeliner, and 2 lipsticks. Now that’s an idea everyone should try!
6. They spend good money on haircuts.
Women in France are sure of one thing: you can wear €10 clothes and nobody will ever know that they are cheap, but get a cheap haircut once and your appearance will be completely ruined. This is why they are ready to pay a fortune to a good hairstylist and they go back to the same person for many years.
Also, a good haircut doesn’t need any fixing, so you don’t have to style your hair every day, only on very special occasions.
5. They have a simple beauty routine.
If there is one thing a French woman really needs it’s expensive cosmetics like a good face cleanser, a sunscreen, and a moisturizer. They will often add different oils for body and hair to this list.
In France, women live according to “the less is more” principle. They use just a few cosmetic products, but the ones they use are expensive.
So, when it comes to peels that are used all over the world, French women don’t really use them. They prefer masks, they use them really often, and they use a lot of different kinds — because good masks restore and rejuvenate the skin.
4. They believe in natural eyebrows.
You will never see a real French woman who has very heavy eyebrows that are an unnaturally dark color. Instead, they take good care of their eyebrows, making sure that they stay healthy, big, and thick.
They may put a little makeup on their eyebrows, but most of the time they don’t even do that. They just use some gel for styling.
3. They don’t diet.
Not a single French women in her right mind would ever start a diet. They are completely sure: the short-term effect of a calorie deficit is not only not worth the effort, but will also damage the skin because of the lack of vitamins.
For them, the main secret to having a beautiful body is eating a little. They eat anything they want, but not a lot of it. And when they feel that they are full, they just stop eating, not feeling forced to finish the meal.
However, French women do try to avoid an excess of sugar in their diet because it damages the skin. But they are not afraid of foods with a lot of fat.
2. They believe in the power of cold showers.
French women know about the importance of having a cold shower after a hot bath. This stimulates the blood circulation and helps to keep the skin toned. As a result, they always look fresh and cool.
1. They accept themselves as they are, flaws and all.
French women rarely need the services of plastic surgeons. It is very unlikely that you will meet an actress, a model, or a fashion blogger in Paris who has a fake nose, cheekbones, or lips that have fillers.
French women learn to accept themselves as they are, flaws and all. This is what makes them so different and alive. This is why French women are always able to highlight their advantages and their uniqueness.
Do you have your own tricks for how to stay beautiful that have been passed on from generation to generation? Share them with us!
Please note: This article was updated in April 2022 to correct source material and factual inaccuracies.
Preview photo credit kyliejenner / Instagram, East News
I Took an Abandoned Girl from Church on Easter Only to Uncover My MIL’s Deepest Secret — Story of the Day
She was five. Alone. Holding an Easter basket on the church steps. I brought her home against my MIL’s protests. By evening, I realized this child wasn’t a stranger to our family at all.
I don’t like celebrating Easter with my husband’s family.
It’s not the holiday itself — it’s beautiful, bright, full of the smell of yeasty dough and fresh flowers. But celebrating it under my MIL’s sharp gaze feels like sitting on needles in a lace dress.
To her, I’ve always been a little “not right.”
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So when my husband, Dave, suggested going to her place, I made every effort not to grimace. He was drying his hands with a towel, clearly hoping I’d say “yes” without hesitation this time.
“Come on, love. It’ll be nice.”
I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea that had long gone cold.
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“You know exactly how it’ll go,” I murmured without looking up.
“She’s trying,” Dave said softly. “She even decorated the terrace with flowers. Says she’s making it just like when I was a kid.”
“Yeah. With the same ‘jokes’ from back then — like how you’re still childless because your wife clearly can’t bake anything more meaningful than a cake.”
Dave let out a slow breath. Silent. Not denying it.
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“She doesn’t know,” he said after a pause.
“And she doesn’t need to. It’s our business. Not hers.”
Dave nodded. But I saw it in his eyes — the weariness. The way he’d grown tired of being the rope in a silent tug-of-war between two women who loved him in different ways.
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I turned to the window. Crocuses had started blooming. Easter was around the corner.
“Fine,” I stood up. “Let’s go. Better her decorated terrace than our walls reminding us of what we don’t have.”
“You sure?”
“No,” I smiled. “But I have a nice dress. It deserves some air.”
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Dave laughed and raised his hands in surrender.
“So are we blessing the Easter basket or just keeping the peace for one day?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself until I’m actually holding the basket,” I grumbled, pulling on my coat.
An hour later, we were driving down a road sprinkled with fallen blossoms. I had no idea this Easter would be more challenging than I expected.
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***
The morning went surprisingly well. Cynthia greeted us without a single eye roll or poisonous comment.
The Easter service was beautiful.
Light streamed through the stained-glass windows, and I found myself almost relaxed, sitting beside Dave with Cynthia on the other side, clutching her blessed basket like a relic.
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No side-eyes. No sighs. No carefully sharpened remarks. For the first time ever, it felt like a normal holiday. A quiet, uneventful, even… pleasant Easter. At least, that’s what I thought.
When the service ended, we stepped out into the sunlight. I stood near Dave’s mother as she scanned the crowd.
“Where’s David? Still in there?”
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“He’s helping someone with the candles.”
Cynthia muttered something under her breath and headed toward the car. I was about to follow when…
I saw her.
A little girl, no older than five, was sitting alone on the edge of the stone steps. Her Easter basket rested beside her — jelly beans inside, and a chocolate bunny with one ear already bitten off.
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She was Black. Dressed in a white cardigan and yellow dress, her shoes perfectly polished. But her face looked… abandoned.
I walked over slowly and crouched down.
“Hey there. Are you waiting for someone?”
She looked up. Big brown eyes. Calm, but uncertain.
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“My daddy. Mama said he’d be here to get me.”
“You came here alone?”
She shook her head.
“Mom brought me. She said Daddy would come.”
Before I could ask more, I heard a sharp voice behind me.
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“There you are!” Cynthia’s heels clicked against the pavement. “What on earth are you doing? We’re all waiting in the car!”
“This little girl… She’s waiting for her father. Says he’s supposed to meet her here.”
Cynthia gave her a long look, unimpressed. “Oh, come on. You don’t really believe that.”
“She seems sure. Maybe we could check with someone? Or let the priest know?”
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Cynthia rolled her eyes.
“She seems like she walked away from some social worker. You don’t just leave a five-year-old at church with a basket and expect a miracle.”
Then, she narrowed her eyes at me, already sensing where that was going.
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“And don’t even think about getting involved. You’re not bringing some stranger’s child into someone’s clean home on Easter Sunday.”
“She’s not a kitten. She’s a child. Alone. I’m not leaving her here.”
“She’ll be fine!” Cynthia snapped. “Someone will come for her. It’s a church, not a bus stop.”
I looked down. The girl had gone quiet.
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“I’ll take her with us,” I said.
“You will not.” Cynthia’s voice went cold. “This is my house. I decide who walks through my door.”
“Then Dave and I will get a hotel.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
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I knelt again beside the girl.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Ava,” she whispered.
“Well, Ava, how about you come with us for a little while? Just until we find your Mom or Dad, okay?”
She nodded.
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Dave appeared just as I was scribbling our address on the back of a church flyer and handing it to the priest. Cynthia stormed toward him.
“Your wife is bringing home strays now!”
Dave looked at me, then at Ava, then at his mother.
“It’s fine,” he said calmly. “She can come with us.”
“She what? David!”
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“She’s a little girl, Mom. It’s Easter.”
Cynthia stared at both of us like we’d lost our minds. But I held Ava’s hand as we walked to the car. And Dave didn’t let go of mine.
I had no idea who that child truly was.
But something deep inside me already knew — that wasn’t random.
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***
Ava followed me through the hallway in tiny socks, carefully stepping on the wooden floor like it might crack beneath her.
The house smelled like Easter bread and tension.
Cynthia hadn’t said a word since we came in. She’d pursed her lips so tight I thought they might disappear entirely.
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Dave, bless him, tried to smooth things over — making tea, chatting about traffic, pretending we hadn’t just brought a mysterious child into his childhood home.
But Ava was… different.
She didn’t whine. Didn’t ask for cartoons. She just sat at the table drawing, focused, quiet. Her tiny fingers gripped a purple crayon like it was the only anchor she had.
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I leaned over.
“That’s beautiful. Who is it?”
She held up the drawing — a man, a woman, and a little girl between them. They were holding hands.
The man had brown hair and green eyes. Just like Dave.
I swallowed hard.
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“You like drawing your mom and dad?”
She nodded.
“Sometimes I dream about them. Together.”
I stood and quietly went to the guest room where we’d placed her backpack. I needed to find her toothbrush. Or clean socks. Or anything — just something to do with my hands.
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I unzipped the side pocket. A photo slipped out. It fluttered to the floor.
I bent down. And froze. It was a printed photo. A young couple, smiling.
The woman — beautiful, dark-skinned, with soft curls around her cheeks. The man — tall, white, with familiar green eyes.
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Familiar face.
Familiar jawline.
Familiar dimple.
My husband!
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“Ava?” I called gently, stepping into the hallway.
She peeked out from the kitchen, chewing on a cookie. I showed her the photo.
“Sweetheart… Who’s this?”
She smiled brightly.
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“That’s my mommy and daddy!”
I tried to return the smile. But my cheeks refused to move.
“Do you know your daddy’s name?”
She paused. “I think… David. I’ve never met him.”
My heart dropped.
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I nodded slowly and turned down the hallway, my fingers trembling around the photo.
Then, the soft creak of a floorboard behind me. A sigh.
Cynthia.
She was already standing there, arms folded, eyes narrowed like she’d been waiting for her cue. I stepped into the living room where Dave sat on the couch, holding out the photo.
“Dave. What is this?”
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My husband looked up. His face went pale. Before he could speak, Cynthia’s voice cut through the air like ice.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she snapped, striding into the room. “I heard everything. First, you bring home a random child, now you’re accusing my son of being her father? What kind of circus is this?”
Dave stood up.
“Mom. Stop.”
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Cynthia’s eyes burned into mine.
“You’re seriously turning Easter into some twisted drama? What’s next — a baby goat in the guest room?”
Dave didn’t look at her. He took my hand.
“She might be my daughter.”
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***
The house held its breath.
Dave sat on the armrest of the couch, staring at the photo in his hand like it was ticking. Cynthia paced near the fireplace, arms crossed so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Ava was upstairs, drawing. Quiet as a ghost. And just as heavy on our hearts. Then the doorbell rang. We all froze. Cynthia frowned.
“Who could that possibly be?”
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Dave looked at me. I didn’t say anything — just headed toward the door, my palms damp.
When I opened it, I saw her.
A tall woman stood on the porch. Black. Graceful. The wind tugged at her scarf, revealing soft curls and sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were tired.
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It took me only a second to place her. She was the woman from the photo. The one smiling beside Dave in the snapshot, hidden in Ava’s backpack.
The one who hadn’t said a word. Until now.
“Hi,” she said softly. “You must be the one who brought Ava.”
I nodded.
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“I’m Daisy,” she added. “Her mother.”
I stepped aside without speaking. She entered slowly, like someone stepping into a house that once belonged to her in a dream.
Dave stood up the moment he saw her.
“Daisy…?”
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“I got your number from the priest. But I didn’t call. I already knew where to go.”
“You knew we’d be here?”
“I didn’t… not until I saw you this morning. At the church.”
Dave froze.
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“I was walking past with Ava,” she continued. “We were just going to sit outside and listen to the choir. But then Ava saw you. She didn’t know it was you. I did.”
Daisy’s voice trembled, just slightly.
“Ava always asks about you. I didn’t plan anything. But I thought…”
She paused. Looked around the room.
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“I told her to wait for her Dad.”
“You left her?” Cynthia’s voice cut like broken glass.
“I stayed,” Daisy said, turning sharply. “I watched everything. You were one of the last families to leave. I wanted to see what you’d do. Whether you’d ignore her. Whether you’d walk away.”
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Dave looked like he was about to fall.
“You should have told me.”
“I tried. Twice. The first time, I got your voicemail. The second… your mother answered the door. After that, your number stopped working.”
All heads turned to Cynthia. She didn’t flinch. But her mouth was tight.
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“I was protecting you,” she said.
“No,” Daisy replied. “You were protecting yourself. Your image. Your control.”
“I was protecting my son’s future!”
“You stole his present. And his daughter’s.”
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Dave’s face crumbled. He turned to me, searching, as if for balance.
I stepped forward and said quietly, “She’s not trying to break anything, Cynthia. She’s trying to give something back.”
Then we heard the footsteps. Ava appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a piece of paper.
“Mommy?”
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Daisy’s entire face changed. She crouched without thinking.
“Hey, baby.”
Ava ran to her, curling into her arms like she’d been waiting for this hug her whole life. Dave’s voice broke the silence.
“I didn’t know. God, I didn’t know.”
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“You do now,” Daisy answered gently. “And she’s right here.”
Dave looked at me. I reached for his hand.
“She’s your daughter. I’m not going anywhere. But neither is she.”
Cynthia stood still. I turned to her.
“I may never be able to give you a grandchild. But you already have one. Maybe not the one you imagined. But real. Brilliant. Here.”
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Cynthia didn’t answer. But something shifted in her eyes. She looked at Ava, and her shoulders dropped.
“You can stay,” she said hoarsely. “All of you. It’s Easter. And I guess… even the messiest families deserve to be together.”
Ava stepped toward me and unfolded her drawing.
“I made us all. Even Granny Cynthia. Just in case.”
Cynthia blinked. For a second, I thought she might cry. She cleared her throat.
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“That’s… very sweet, dear.”
Ava smiled shyly and returned to Daisy’s side. And I… I just watched them. A man. A woman. A child. A mess. A miracle. A maybe.
Maybe our family didn’t begin the way we hoped. Maybe it was twisted, tangled, and painful.
But it was real. It was ours. And somehow, in the most unexpected way, I’d found someone I didn’t even know I was meant to love.
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