Paris Fashion Week men’s always sounds glamorous in theory. In practice, it begins at 6 a.m. on a London platform, clutching a coffee that tastes like regret, boarding the Eurostar with one eye open and the other still dreaming of my bed. But fashion waits for no one, and neither does the 3.Paradis show, so off I went, chasing runway magic under the Channel and into Paris.
I arrived at Gare du Nord, bleary but determined, and sped straight to my hotel in Pigalle to dump my suitcases. No shower. No pause. Just (unhinged) vibes. From there, I headed directly to the show at the gorgeous Parc Georges-Brassens, following the bass like a cartoon character floating toward a pie on a windowsill. The music was already THUMPING through the park gates, so loud my ears were filing a formal complaint.
As I was ushered to my seat, I clocked the details that make fashion people quietly emotional. Blankets on every chair, praise be. A pop-up from Joe & The Juice serving hot drinks in collaboration with the brand. Double praise be. I was freezing, running on fumes, and suddenly holding something warm, which felt intimate in a Parisian way. Then the show began.
3.Paradis, helmed by designer Emeric Tchatchoua, has always lived between dream and reality, and this collection leaned hard into that in a very tangible way. The palette stayed emotional and moody: deep blacks, cloudy greys, soft creams, flashes of burgundy and washed denim blues. Tailoring was relaxed but slick, oversized coats with rounded shoulders, fluid trousers that skimmed rather than clung, satin bombers and glossy outerwear catching the light as models moved through the park.
What grounded it all were the graphic moments. Amy Winehouse appeared printed directly onto pieces, her image haunting like a memory you can’t quite shake. But it didn’t feel nostalgic or costume-y. More like channeling her rawness, that mix of vulnerability and defiance, through fabric.
But let’s be honest. As much as I appreciated the looks, my eyes had tunnel vision. Straight to the feet. Because there they were. The UGG slippers. The result of the collaboration between 3.Paradis and UGG, glistening softly under the sun light like the object of my affection. Plush. Elevated. Cozy yet intentional. Fashion’s favorite contradiction.
After the final walk, I did what any respectful, professional guest would do. I snuck backstage. With help, of course, from a lovely PR angel named Gizem. Backstage was mayhem in the best way. Models changing, assistants sprinting, garments flying, energy buzzing. And me? Laser-focused on the shoes. I spotted them instantly and zeroed in on a burgundy pair. A slipper with a subtle platform. Destiny, really. I was already wearing a Chopova Lowena satin bomber in a matching burgundy tone, distressed Diesel jeans, and a gray hoodie. The math was mathing. I grabbed them, shoved them into my bag, and exited swiftly, heart racing, pretending this was all very normal.
On the Paris Métro, I changed shoes right there in my seat. Immediate relief. Immediate joy. They were insanely comfortable, like my feet had entered a new tax bracket. I wore them to meetings where people stopped mid-sentence to ask about them. I wore them to lunch at my forever favorite, Abri Soba. I wore them shopping around Le Marais. No break-in period. No blisters. Just compliments. That night, I even wore them out to a couple of parties, because duh.
The verdict after a full Paris day? I’m hooked. The kind of shoe that makes you feel like you’ve hacked fashion somehow. And yes, apologies for being a cheeky little thief (lol). Sorry, not sorry.
