I’ve Worked in Fashion for 15 Years—Here’s What I Actually Wear Every Day

Eugénie Trochu is a Who What Wear Editor in Residence known for her transformative work at Vogue France; her Substack newsletter, where she documents and shares new trends, her no-nonsense approach to fashion and style, plus other musings; and she’s working on her upcoming first book that explores fashion as a space of memory, projection, and reinvention.

I’ve been in fashion for 15 years. I’ve watched trends rise and fall, silhouettes get reinvented, and countless “returns” arrive with their carefully packaged storylines: the “empowered” pencil skirt, the “perfectly cut” capri pants, the “next-generation” ballet flat, the “reinvented” trench coat. I’ve sat through shows that were choreographed down to the last detail. I’ve written reviews of collections—some sublime, others questionable. I’ve interviewed obsessive designers and exhausted stylists. I’ve learned how to read what clothes are saying, especially when no one is really looking anymore.

And yet, every morning when I open my closet, I come back to a wardrobe that barely shifts. Not a rigid uniform but a loose framework. Not a costume but a vocabulary. These are pieces that have stayed with me, year after year.

There’s the black Levi’s 501s, the Prada blazer, the Ralph Lauren men’s shirt I never returned, the oversize denim overshirt that rescues me from hesitation. There are white socks that peek out, gold family jewelry, vintage rock tees I bought more for what they evoke than what they display.

Some things I’ve worn to newsrooms, shoots, weekends à la mer, or meetings where I felt slightly out of focus. Others I wear to write, to walk, to think, to keep quiet. What I wear every day was never meant for photos. But it holds me. Grounds me. Knows me. So maybe it’s time to talk about it.

In the end, my wardrobe isn’t a strategy. It’s a selection. A discipline. A form of intimacy. I don’t dress to hold an image. I dress to hold a day, an idea, an intention. And everything I wear—my black jeans, scuffed ballet flats, sturdy blazer, rock T-shirts, inherited gold jewelry—serves exactly that: to carry me through without disguising me. There’s nothing spectacular about what I wear. But everything is precise. Everything is chosen. And maybe that’s what real luxury is, after all: knowing exactly what you love to wear, and why.

The Black Levi’s 501s (or Low-Rise Jeans on Sarcastic Days)

The black 501 is my foundation—worn through at the right knee, a little tight at the waist but still sharp. I’ve worn it with a white shirt to a Dior dinner and with a shapeless sweatshirt during the close of a September issue. The low-rise version is from the early 2000s (thank you, Vinted) but without today’s Y2K hysteria. I mean actual low-rise jeans: slightly loose, just enough hip to remind you the body exists, not enough to make it a statement. I pair them with a more intricate top and a leather jacket—Helmut Lang fall 1999 energy.

The Not-Too-Perfect White Tee and the Striped Men’s Shirt

I have dozens: Uniqlo, Petit Bateau, Hanes, a couple of unraveling Margielas, and one “vintage” shirt that’s just my dad’s. It has to be soft, washed-out, almost pale. Too new, and it looks suspicious. I tuck it into jeans, and roll the sleeves. That’s it. The striped men’s shirt is different. Thin stripes, slightly worn collar—mine’s Ralph Lauren. I stole it from an ex who wore it too well. Now I wear it better. Half-buttoned, half-untucked, paired with patent kitten heels so it says “I’m working” when I’m really just out buying Parmesan.

The Denim Jacket (or Overshirt on Sleepless Days)

A classic Levi’s jacket, found at a flea market in Los Angeles in 2011, softened by time. I wear it like a structured comfort blanket. On tired mornings, I reach for the oversize denim overshirt: longer, looser, more enveloping. I throw it over anything—a dress, a tee, an existential crisis. It’s my “I’m here, but don’t ask too much of me” piece. It does what a The Row trench does, without the offshore account.

Ballet Flats, Loafers, Converse

I love heels but can’t walk in them. So I stick to battered Repetto flats, worn Gucci Horsebit loafers, old black Converse (pre–chunky sole), or white Repetto Zizi shoes à la Serge Gainsbourg. Shoes that don’t interrogate you. Shoes that let you walk straight, flee a date, pick up a child from school, get onstage, or collapse in a café. They go with everything. Even the off days.

The Structured Blazer (Strong Shoulders, Strong Nerves)

This is what I call the good blazer, with long, slightly boxy, masculine-leaning shoulders. Mine is a suede Prada from fall 2023. I’ve worn it with a pleated Frankie Shop skirt, with ripped jeans, with my 501s, with a slip dress to throw the look off-balance. It’s seen meetings, breakups, dinners that glowed a little too brightly. It keeps its line even when I lose mine.

High Boots, All Kinds

I’ve lost count of how many pairs I own. They take up too much space, don’t fit in totes, weigh down every suitcase—and regularly save my life. Black leather, white (my obsession), faux croc, python, impossible YSL iconic vinyl, flat riding boots, stiff ones, slouchy ones. No hierarchy. As long as they climb high on the leg, they’re welcome. I wear them with summer dresses in winter, with jeans layered recklessly, with pleated skirts neutralized by ugly sweaters and my faithful blazer. Special mention to white Gia Couture Firenze x Rosie Huntington-Whiteley boots, repaired endlessly by a cobbler in the 16th, and a beat-up leather pair I’ve worn since 2012, still smelling faintly of Le Petit Palace and end-of-night mascara.

Pointy Kitten Heels

They serve no practical purpose. Nobody looks at me differently when I wear them. But I stand differently. They click just enough. They pinch just enough to remind me I’m present. One pair in plum satin with a bow that could have been stolen from Miu Miu, another in perfect white from By Far. They’re my fashion heels—but easy. They don’t lift me much, but they give me perspective.

The Cowboy-Adjacent Belt

It’s just an accessory. But also a boundary. A line. A reminder that there’s a body under here, not just fluidity. My favorite: is a black leather belt with a slightly too-showy silver buckle, bought at Jessie Western in Notting Hill between London Fashion Week shows. I can’t find it in my closet anymore, which makes me sad. When I do, I wear it with Redone jeans, a slouchy tee, and the energy of a woman who could buy a horse—or leave someone—at any given moment.

Gold Family Jewelry (Stacked With Precision and Bad Faith)

No strategy. I pile it on. My grandfather’s signet ring, slim bangles from my 18th birthday, two inherited chains, a medal I wear backward. And the rings—that’s where I don’t hold back. I stack them, mix them, layer them. Thin bands, gold on every finger, or stronger pieces found at a Swiss flea market or at Repossi. I wear them every day, even to buy milk. They don’t “complete” me. They remind me where I come from. Quiet talismans. Real luxury. Sometimes people ask if they’re vintage. No, worse. They’re personal.

White Socks (or the Color of Volcanic Dust)

I don’t trust people who never think about their socks. Mine are white, thickish, with clean cuffs. Sometimes gray, sandy beige, or the color of some rare mineral whose name I never remember. I wear them with Converse, loafers, boots. They peek out. They declare.

Actual Vintage Rock T-Shirts

Not reissues. Not Zara tees with fake grunge fonts. Real ones. Worn, sometimes torn, always alive. An old Sonic Youth, an oversize The Cure, a Bruce Springsteen with peeling print. I love them all with a sort of respectful affection. I wear them for the music. And because they tell stories.

The ’90s Black Suit Pants, Gwyneth-at-Armani Style

These are the pants I wear when I need structure, not disguise. Black, mid-rise, straight, a touch too long so they brush the shoe—enough to say “authority” without saying “HR meeting.” I wear them with an open shirt or a shapeless tee. Sometimes with kitten heels, sometimes Converse. In my head, I’m Gwyneth Paltrow at Armani circa 1997. In reality, I’m in an office or on set. These pants hold me. Legitimize me.

The FIAC Tote Bag (and More Gems)

I own plenty of bags. Beautiful ones. But I don’t like bags. They weigh me down, clutter me, remind me of obligations I don’t want to face. I usually start the day with a structured leather bag and end it with a stained FIAC tote—ruined at the bottom by a forgotten apple or an uncapped pen. Sometimes it’s just a grocery tote, in full “post-handbag era” mode.