Ah, Paris Fashion Week. The annual spectacle where the rich and famous descend upon the City of Lights to remind the rest of us that “taste” is just another commodity for sale. This year’s parade of designer delusion delivered everything we could’ve hoped for: billionaires pretending to be relatable, actors trapped in fabrics that look like unfinished group projects, and a collective suspension of aesthetic judgment that could power the Louvre’s electricity bill for a decade.
Let’s unpack it all—one overpriced outfit and one fragile ego at a time.
Chapter 1: The Church of Fashion and Its Holy Pilgrims
Paris Fashion Week kicked off September 29, and by October 7, the sidewalks looked like the world’s most expensive costume party hosted by people who mistake self-importance for self-expression. Actors, musicians, and billionaires all swarmed the city, flocking to shows like Louis Vuitton, Givenchy, Balenciaga, and whatever brand can make a garbage bag cost $2,000.
Every attendee comes to Paris with one shared goal: to be photographed looking like they either understood the assignment or are the assignment. For most, the result is somewhere between “AI-generated influencer” and “wardrobe malfunction but make it couture.”
This year’s theme? Money can’t buy taste, but it can rent attention.
Chapter 2: Zendaya Shines, Humanity Dims
Let’s start with Zendaya, who could wear a recycled tarp and still outclass everyone else in a 5-mile radius. She arrived in a silver Louis Vuitton minidress, sparkling like the last shred of hope in a dystopian YA novel. The dress had knots down the front, white fur trimming the sleeves, and the kind of metallic sheen that says, “I’m contractually obligated to look flawless.”
The look was chic, sleek, and effortlessly stylish—a.k.a., everything no one else managed this week. Zendaya’s problem is she makes the rest of celebrity fashion look like an amateur cosplay convention. You just know someone backstage whispered, “Okay, everyone act natural,” as she walked in.
If fashion is a battlefield, Zendaya doesn’t fight—she just declares victory and goes home.
Chapter 3: Jenna Ortega Wears a Red Flag
Next up, Jenna Ortega in a Givenchy gown that could generously be described as “confused.” Red mesh, ruffled neckline, and a see-through skirt that screamed, “The tailor called in sick.” It looked like the ghost of a Valentine’s Day dress. The neckline was too loose, the texture too jarring, and the overall effect was “unfinished assignment turned in for partial credit.”
It’s not that Ortega doesn’t look good—she always does—it’s that the outfit looked like it was still buffering. You know that moment when you try to stream a movie, and it freezes mid-scene? That was this dress. Red, pixelated, and holding on for dear life.
Chapter 4: Jeff Bezos—The Gray Area of Fashion
And then there was Jeff Bezos, the bald apostle of capitalism himself, wandering Paris like a man trying to understand irony. Accompanied by Lauren Sánchez Bezos—part-time helicopter pilot, full-time red-carpet risk-taker—Jeff decided to dress like a man who’s been told what “casual luxury” means by an AI trained on GQ covers.
His outfit: gray jeans, a matching sweater, and a long peacoat. His accessories? $1,050 Celine sneakers and $1,185 Jacques Marie Mage sunglasses. The total look screamed, “I’m rich enough to look this boring.”
Lauren, meanwhile, wore a vintage John Galliano set from 1995. The top worked—structured, strong, powerful. The skirt, however, had all the grace of a window curtain caught in a storm. It bunched, it scrunched, and it made her look about six inches shorter. When your outfit costs more than a year’s rent and still manages to shrink you, that’s performance art.
Still, Jeff looked happier than a man who just remembered he owns space. Maybe that’s the real luxury—being rich enough that your fashion “moment” doesn’t matter.
Chapter 5: Jaden Smith and the Denim Dilemma
Jaden Smith showed up in a two-piece denim set that looked like what happens when “quiet luxury” and “Y2K fever dream” get into a car accident. The jeans were pleated, the jacket had oversized pockets, and the whole ensemble screamed “philosopher cowboy.”
He accessorized with sunglasses, dress shoes, and a wooden purse. Because nothing says avant-garde like carrying around something that looks like it came from Home Depot’s seasonal section.
To be fair, Jaden’s outfit worked. It balanced between irony and sincerity—the aesthetic sweet spot of every influencer who swears their look is “about sustainability” while boarding a private jet.
Chapter 6: The Summer He Turned Awkward
Christopher Briney, of The Summer I Turned Pretty fame, rolled into Saint Laurent dressed like his stylist accidentally hit “shuffle.” Gray suit? Fine. White shirt? Acceptable. Red tie? Sure, why not. But then—out of nowhere—a leather jacket that looked like it was designed for a completely different species.
The sleeves were too short, the fit too tight, and the vibe too confused. It’s the kind of look that says, “I bought this online at 3 a.m. because it was on sale.” Somewhere in Paris, a Saint Laurent intern is crying into a sketchbook.
Chapter 7: Meghan Markle—Balenciaga’s Redemption Arc
In a surprise twist, Meghan Markle decided to drop in on Balenciaga’s runway show, dressed like the ghost of corporate minimalism. She wore white trousers, a shapeless blouse, and a cape that screamed “HR department chic.” It was understated, dramatic, and maybe just a little cult leader–adjacent.
And yet… it worked. The outfit balanced Balenciaga’s dystopian energy with royal restraint. She looked like she could fire you and absolve you of sin. The black heels sealed the deal—quiet, deadly, and expensive.
Somewhere in California, Prince Harry probably watched the photos and sighed, “Thank God it’s not beige.”
Chapter 8: Heidi Klum’s Lace Catastrophe
Heidi Klum showed up at Vetements in a gray-on-gray ensemble that can only be described as “fabric indecision.” A dark oversized coat over a see-through lace dress that looked like someone melted a doily over a ghost. Heidi usually nails the daring look, but this time it was more confusing than couture.
The proportions were all wrong. The outerwear swallowed her shoulders, and the innerwear—well, there wasn’t much of it. She wore underwear and no bra, which is fine if you’re auditioning for The Phantom of the Lingerie Drawer, but not for Paris Fashion Week. Add a bra and suddenly—boom—it’s fashion. Without one? It’s just weather-inappropriate.
Chapter 9: Anitta Brings the Heat
Finally, someone remembered fashion is supposed to be fun. Anitta showed up in a leather gown at Balmain that was so sleek it could’ve doubled as a supervillain origin story. The plunging neckline, ruched detailing, and gold-accented gloves screamed confidence.
She looked like the CEO of “Sorry, I Don’t Do Casual.” This was one of those rare moments where everyone else in the room realized: oh, this is what effort looks like.
Anitta understood the assignment, aced it, and then graded everyone else’s work in red ink.
Chapter 10: Pamela Anderson, Lost in Translation
Pamela Anderson attended Mugler’s show in a shimmering dress that could’ve been stunning—if it hadn’t been upstaged by her shoes and hair. The red bob was less “Parisian chic” and more “hot sauce bottle mascot.” Her heels were pointy enough to qualify as weapons, but the shape was so odd they looked custom-made by an alien cobbler.
The dress itself? Gorgeous. But between the hair and the heels, it felt like she accidentally wandered into a 1980s time capsule. Somewhere, Mugler’s ghost whispered, “Mon dieu…”
Chapter 11: Jennifer Lawrence—Finally, Someone Gets It
Jennifer Lawrence showed up to Dior looking like she actually dressed herself, which at Fashion Week is the highest possible compliment. Blue blouse, black vest, gray trousers, tan trench coat. Neutral tones, clean lines, no pretense. She looked like she was there to watch fashion, not become it.
And that red handbag? Perfection. It gave the outfit a pulse without screaming for attention. J-Law walked in looking like a functioning adult, which made her the most subversive person in Paris.
Chapter 12: Ice Spice Blends Into the Backdrop
Ice Spice attended Stella McCartney’s show wearing a one-shoulder minidress that was fine—except for the small issue that it matched her skin tone exactly. It’s one thing to go for a “nude” palette, but this was more like “optical illusion gone wrong.” The effect was so subtle it looked like someone accidentally Photoshopped her out of her own outfit.
Her brown square-toed heels didn’t help. The whole thing was one big beige blur. Somewhere, a stylist should’ve yelled, “Contrast, darling! Contrast!”
Chapter 13: The Billionaire’s Catwalk
Paris Fashion Week has always been a playground for excess, but this year felt particularly dystopian. Watching billionaires and influencers fawn over each other’s fabric choices while the world burns outside the venue is peak 2025 energy. You can practically hear the carbon footprint expanding with every flash of the camera.
Jeff Bezos buying $1,000 sneakers to match his peacoat isn’t fashion—it’s performance capitalism. Zendaya’s dress was art; Bezos’ outfit was an advertisement for the collapse of nuance.
Fashion used to push boundaries. Now it just pushes credit limits.
Chapter 14: The Cult of “Quiet Luxury”
There’s an ongoing delusion among the ultra-rich that “quiet luxury” means dressing like you’re allergic to color. It’s minimalist, sure—but in the same way a hospital hallway is minimalist. Bezos’ gray-on-gray is the perfect metaphor for billionaires who think understatement is humility. Spoiler: it’s not. It’s just expensive boredom.
Meanwhile, people like Jaden Smith and Anitta actually took risks—you know, the kind of thing fashion is supposed to be about. But they’re the exception, not the rule. The rest of Fashion Week looked like an HR department escaped containment.
Chapter 15: Paris Fashion Weak—Final Grades
Let’s hand out some report cards, shall we?
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Zendaya: A+. The only one who remembered what glamour looks like.
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Jenna Ortega: C-. Points for trying; deductions for unfinished business.
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Jeff Bezos: B. Effortless in the way only someone with assistants can be.
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Lauren Sánchez Bezos: C+. Archival Galliano deserved better lighting and better tailoring.
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Jaden Smith: B+. Weird works.
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Christopher Briney: D+. Stop mixing metaphors and jackets.
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Meghan Markle: A-. Cult leader chic, but make it regal.
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Heidi Klum: C. Too much lace, not enough logic.
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Anitta: A+. The Balmain queen we didn’t deserve.
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Pamela Anderson: C-. Fire the hairstylist, keep the dress.
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Jennifer Lawrence: A. Effortless, relatable, almost illegal levels of sanity.
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Ice Spice: D. Beige on beige crime.
Chapter 16: The Emperor’s New Clothes
Here’s the truth no one at Fashion Week wants to admit: it’s not about fashion anymore. It’s about visibility. Being seen, tagged, reposted, and memed is the point. The runway is secondary to the camera flash.
The irony? The best-dressed people aren’t even there. They’re the Parisians quietly sipping espresso, watching billionaires trip over cobblestones in $10,000 heels, wondering how the world got this weird.
Fashion used to shock. Now it panders. And maybe that’s the real tragedy—when rebellion becomes just another PR strategy.
Chapter 17: Love in the Time of Haute Couture
Paris is the city of love, but Fashion Week turns it into the city of narcissism. Everyone’s performing romance—with themselves. Jeff and Lauren stroll hand-in-hand like characters in a billionaire rom-com titled Fifty Shades of Beige. Zendaya flirts with the camera. Pamela Anderson flirts with chaos. Meghan Markle flirts with royal nostalgia.
It’s less about love and more about validation. Every flashbulb is a confession: Notice me. Approve of me. Immortalize me.
And Paris, obliging as ever, says, Oui, but make it fashion.
Chapter 18: The Curtain Falls, The Ego Remains
As Fashion Week wraps, Paris returns to itself. The red carpets get rolled up, the billionaires board their jets, and the interns finally sleep. The city exhales.
But the images remain—frozen in time, forever circulated, forever dissected. The world will scroll, comment, and forget, while the next “iconic moment” loads in the algorithmic queue.
Because fashion, at least in this century, isn’t about artistry. It’s about relevance. And nothing’s more fashionable than pretending to care.
Epilogue: The Moral of the Catwalk
If there’s one takeaway from Paris Fashion Week 2025, it’s this: You can have all the money, fame, and stylists in the world—but if your skirt bunches or your jacket pinches, you’re still just another human trying too hard.
Paris may forgive bad taste, but the internet never will.
Until next year, when the same billionaires return to remind us that couture, like capitalism, always fits better on paper than in real life.