“I must tell you that I am not at all interested in clothes,” said Simone de Beauvoir, almost at once. “I have so many other things to think about, so many other interests that they are not at all on my mind.”

And considering that she is the foremost intellectual of her sex in Paris and one of the most interesting women writing in the world to-day, it’s not unexpected. People had laughed at the idea of her talking about clothes, but once she had opened the door of her studio flat in Montparnasse it was evident that she must have thought about them.

She was a compact, elegant and eager figure in a black and white wool-braided tweed dress. With it she wore big garnet stud earrings set in silver, rings on two of her fingers, sturdy black pumps and, almost hidden by her collar, a silver chain with a shallow bib of silver drops hanging from it. Her make-up was definite: tinted foundation and pinky-red lipstick; red nail varnish. She buzzed with cheerfulness and talked nineteen to the dozen in clearly marshalled consequence.

Showing Her Treasures

The apartment she lives in is in a block of modern studio flats. It is light, bright, clean and tidy and filled with gaily coloured trophies of her travels; squadrons of African figures; a red Korean drum; Chinese plush birds; a Chinese embroidered silk panel hung over the bedroom balcony and, on a little round table by the window, a model of Sartre’s hands backed by a hyacinth in a pot and decorated with bead necklaces and more birds.

She sat neatly on the edge of a divan with her hands together in her lap and there was something of a little girl about the way she jumped up so readily to seek and show her “treasures.” It’s against my principles to spend too much money or attention on clothes, as well, she went on. I refuse to spend thousands of francs on an evening dress. If I have to go anywhere that means wearing one – I don’t go. But, if it interests you. I’ll tell you my life story as far as clothes are concerned.

When I was a little girl I was very badly dressed. My parents were very correct and dressed plentifully, but for convention and without taste of their own. At about twelve or fourteen I was terrible – yellow and covered with acne.

But I didn’t care at all about my appearance. Life was packed with other interests and my best friend at school, Elizabeth Mabille, whom I admired very much, didn’t care what she looked like, either.

If I had a little girl to bring up I would take great pleasure in dressing her. I would go shopping with her and help her choose her clothes until she was seventeen or eighteen and then I’d leave her on her own. You can develop all kinds of complexes otherwise.

But I deliberately neglected my appearance because it was associated with my parents and their conventional way of life and I had to break away into quite a different new life of my own. I did have one friend who was well dressed and she made me try with my hair.

In my first year as a professor at the Sorbonne I had to have something. So I had two dresses made. One in crêpe-de-chine and one in embossed velvet – black and white. Can you imagine! Horrible!

Friends in the Resistance

I wore them the whole year. I had a coat to keep me warm and a hat. You had to wear a hat, so did the students: they had little berets which they stuffed in their pockets as soon as they got out of sight.

Then in my second year I started to wear a skirt and sweaters. Some of the sweaters were rather special. There was one in angora and another with bands of colour across the front, and my students used to copy them.

The next phase was the war. Then, of course, one forgot about clothes altogether. I had many friends in the Resistance and the main thing was to keep warm. I used to wear all the sweaters I had, one on top of the other, and more sweaters as underwear.

We wore clogs and there weren’t any stockings, and I wore a turban practically all the time – partly as a hat and partly instead of doing my hair. Washing one’s hair was so difficult you see, and there was no hot water. You could buy things in the black market, but it was much too expensive and against my principles. I was more interested in eating, anyway.

When the war ended, all the well-to-do were wearing printed silk skirts and a kind of imitation material in cotton appeared on the market. I got some and had a skirt made, and felt tremendous.

Then I went to Portugal. My sister was living there and she wanted me to come. I was able to fix up some lectures down there. Portugal! Can you imagine! I was delighted.

When I crossed the border the Customs men stared at me in horror. I had bare legs and wooden-soled shoes. I remember getting to Madrid. I couldn’t believe the pretty things in the shops but I didn’t buy anything. When I got to Portugal my sister was appalled. “The poor thing!” said everyone and they took me off to get me some clothes.

Straight off to Tailor

The same thing happened to Sartre when he arrived in America after the war. He had been wearing the same old canadienne, day in day out, for five years and he was swept straight off to the tailor’s.

I didn’t get much: one or two things on very simple classic lines but I had some clothes! I remember buying shoes, too. I bought two or three pairs of flat crêpe soled ones and was terribly pleased with myself. When I got back to Paris people stopped me in the streets to know where I had found them.

But when I went to America a bit later they looked pretty incongruous. So then I bought some more clothes at a store in New York. I had a lovely time: I bought a white coat, beautifully made – I still wear it – and a fur coat. I don’t know what sort it was but it was all fluffy. I had some money there you see, because of my writing.

It’s to make use of that kind of money that I buy things wherever I go all over the world. I bought an enormous Persian lamb coat when I was in Russia and had it remodelled by a good furrier in Paris. Look at the jet and gold buttons I found for it!

Then came my exotic period. I used to buy local and peasant materials all over the world – Guatemala, China, Africa, Dalmatia. I love materials for their own sake and I love the feel of them. I’ll show you some of them if you’re interested.

Here they are. All my treasures. Even though I don’t wear them any more I like to keep them as souvenirs. There’s a red silk Chinese jacket lined with lamb that I still wear because it’s so warm. But I’m getting a bit old for red. And there’s a beautiful old silk coat, a real traditional Chinese theatre robe, that I wear occasionally when friends come round as a kind of fancy dress.

More Careful at Fifty-two

Now I’m getting older and I have to be more careful. I’m fifty-two and ageing women are much more unforgivable. Now I aim to look decent. I have a very good dressmaker – Maggy Riccy in the Rue de Rennes – whom I’ve been going to for ten years now. She made this dress. I go there once or twice a year and it’s all over very quickly. We look at materials together and I’ve chosen within a few minutes.

I like tweeds and strong colours and white. White’s especially good on older women. I love yellow most of all and it suits me. Blue suits me too but I don’t like it because of its associations – except good bright electric blues and then they don’t suit me. I get one dress – not two or three – and wear it the whole season. The rest of the time I wear a skirt and shirt or a sweater.

I go to the hairdresser about twice a month and have it washed, set and dyed. I’m going grey, you see, and it’s just at the pepper-and-salt stage when it looks grubby. The chignon is a postiche, as I have very little hair of my own.

I don’t wear much make-up. When I first grew up I went in for all sorts of hoo-ha: big spots of rouge on my cheeks and I don’t know what! But it wore off bit by bit.

Dressing-Gown for Work

When I get up in the morning I make a brief toilet, put on my dressing-gown and come down and work. I never get dressed until midday or eat until about two. If it had been a different sort of interview I would have received you in my dressing-gown. When I get home in the evening I put on my dressing-gown again. I do most of my writing in a dressing-gown: one feels so much freer. Well, I get up, make a brief toilet, and when I go out at about two o’clock, I put on my make-up and do my hair and get dressed. I have a bath in the evenings – I find it relaxing and that way the whole business is divided by three!

Old Chinese Nail-Covers

Now that I’m getting older I have to watch what I eat. It’s all very well for a young girl to be a bit plump but it doesn’t do for ageing women.

My favourite necklace is one of turquoise and beige stones. It was given to me. I’ll show it to you if you like. I’m showing you all my treasures. I’m very fond of these silver earrings – I like silver. They’re old Chinese fingernail covers shaped like mandarins. Someone found them and had them made into earrings, but one of them is broken now. I put on this silver necklace specially, too. It’s like oats.

I never iron or mend my clothes. I send them to the cleaners. I don’t cook either. I’m not at all domesticated.

I lead a very withdrawn life. I see very few people but those I see, I see all the time. So I’m never in places where it matters what I wear and I’m never with people I have to dress up for.

My Clothes and I by Simone de Beauvoir, as told to Cynthia Judah, was published in the Observer on 20 March 1960. My Clothes and I, an occasional series, ran between March 1959 to April 1960, and also featured model Marla Scarafia, Valerie Hobson (Mrs John Profumo), receptionist Lily Sanson, 16-year-old schoolgirl Nicolette, actors Marlene Dietrich and Leslie Caron, The Duchess of Rutland, dramatist Shelagh Delaney, art student Susan Willett, office girl Rosemary, poet Edith Sitwell, and then-described “housewives” Mrs Sheridan and Fay Wilson.

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