ON MY FIRST NIGHT in Paris to see a tumble menswear collections final week, we upheld a immature male wearing a weathered cowboy hat, a mottled flannel shirt and a span of “how can he travel in those?†spare jeans. It was a arrange of outfit that would demeanour some-more during home in a Los Angeles coffee emporium populated by mocking Silver Lake hipsters than a side-street off a ritzy, ancestral Place Vendôme, so we insincere he was American.
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