Chloé Laurent
- MUH_mod
- Jan 4
- 6 min read
Name: Ieva Kazlauskaitė
Age: 27
Occupation: Marketing Content Creator & Freelance Photographer
Nationality: Lithuanian
City: Vilnius, Lithuania
Weight: 58 kg
Marital Status: Single (Recently ended a 3-year relationship)
Children: None
"My name is Chloé, one of the most popular names in France, but I promise the way I wear my life is anything but ordinary."
I'm 23, born and raised in the 11th arrondissement of Paris, and I design lingerie for a living. Not just any lingerie, but the kind that makes women feel like they're wearing secrets, little pieces of art against their skin. By day, I sketch lace patterns and source silk from the same suppliers that work with Hermès. By night, I slip into my own creations and remind myself why I fell in love with this craft in the first place.
France has this incredible heritage in lingerie, dating back to when the first bra was patented in Paris in 1889. Growing up surrounded by that history, watching my grandmother's generation talk about dessous with such reverence, I knew I wanted to be part of that tradition. But with my own twist, something that speaks to women like me, who want elegance and comfort, seduction and independence, all stitched into the same piece of fabric.
My parents imagined I'd study law or finance, something respectable and stable. Instead, at 19, I enrolled in a fashion design program specializing in intimate apparel. While my friends were interning at corporate offices, I was learning about Calais lace, the difference between silk charmeuse and satin, and why a well-constructed bra is basically architecture for the body.
France is known for physical activity and a lifestyle that values movement, walking everywhere, taking the stairs, living actively. I embody that perfectly. I walk through Paris in heels that would make other women wince, carrying fabric samples in one hand and a coffee in the other, moving through the city like I own it. Because in a way, when you're Parisian and you know it, you kind of do.
People think fashion is about runways and red carpets. For me, it's about those in-between moments. Last week, I spent an afternoon at a shopping mall in Le Marais, trying on pieces I'd never buy but needed to study. A red dress with a cutout at the waist, paired with matching heels, the kind of outfit that turns heads and stops conversations.
I stood in front of the mirror, one leg slightly bent, the other extended, shopping bags at my feet, and I thought, "This is research." Understanding how women want to feel when they're dressed, how fabric moves against skin, how a certain color can change your entire energy. That's my job, but it's also my addiction.
French lingerie brands talk about art de vivre, this idea that what you wear underneath is as important as what's visible. I live that philosophy completely. My tiny apartment in the 11th is filled with prototypes, samples hanging from every available surface, lace in shades of red, black, cream, blush. Sometimes I work from bed, laptop balanced on my knees, wearing nothing but the latest design I'm testing, a red lace set with intricate embroidery that took weeks to perfect.
The industry talks about "ultimate fit," creating pieces for all women, all bodies, all stages of life. I'm learning that craft, but I'm also learning about my own body in the process. How different cuts change the way I move, how certain fabrics make me feel powerful or vulnerable, how the right lingerie can be both armor and invitation.
Three months ago, I ended a relationship that had lasted since I was 19. He was safe, predictable, exactly what my family wanted for me. But somewhere between designing bras that make women feel like goddesses and walking through Paris in heels that hurt beautifully, I realized I'd outgrown him. Or maybe I'd finally grown into myself.
French women spend more time on meals and personal care than women in other European countries, this ritual of treating yourself like you matter. I started embracing that after the breakup. Long baths with wine and candles, trying on every piece in my collection just because I could, going to outdoor cafés alone with a book and a glass of Sancerre, playing chess against myself while men watched and wondered.
There's this European approach to life that Americans always romanticize, but it's real. We walk everywhere, prioritize community, value quality over quantity, live slower and somehow accomplish more. I embody that accidentally. My commute to the atelier where I work involves walking along the Canal Saint-Martin, stopping for bread that's still warm, sitting on a bench to sketch ideas while the city wakes up around me.
But I also break the rules. French women are supposed to be effortlessly chic, naturally beautiful, never trying too hard. I try exactly as hard as I want. My blonde bob is deliberately messy, styled to look like I just rolled out of bed with a lover I don't have yet. My makeup is subtle but strategic, just enough to make my hazel eyes look wider, more innocent than they actually are.
Working in lingerie means living in a constant state of intimacy with strangers. I measure women, discuss their insecurities, help them find pieces that make them feel like the best version of themselves. French lingerie is all about craftsmanship, savoir-faire passed down through generations, techniques that turn fabric into wearable jewelry.
Last week, a client came in wanting something special for her honeymoon. I helped her into a cream silk set with gold embroidery, watched her face change in the mirror, saw her realize she was beautiful. That moment, that transformation, that's why I do this. Also because I get to keep the prototypes, and let me tell you, wearing a one-of-a-kind piece that cost more to make than most people's rent feels absolutely decadent.
I have this strange hobby. I play chess. Alone, mostly, in cafés and parks, working through problems from books while tourists photograph me thinking I'm some kind of Parisian cliché. The truth is, I like the control of it. In chess, every move has consequences, and if you're disciplined and smart, you can see them coming. Life isn't like that, obviously. But lingerie design kind of is. Every seam, every choice of fabric, every placement of lace affects how the final piece functions and feels.
Sometimes I play against men who approach my table, confident they'll win. I let them think they might, right up until they don't. There's something deeply satisfying about checkmate delivered by a 23-year-old blonde in a cashmere sweater who looks like she should be discussing literature, not destroying your bishop-knight defense.
My personal lingerie drawer is basically a museum. Pieces from Lise Charmel with metallic embroidery that looks like jewelry, Louisa Bracq designs in sizes that somehow manage to be both supportive and seductive, samples from my own collections that never made it to production. I have a red lace set that I wear under white button-downs when I need to feel powerful in meetings. I have a cream silk slip that I sleep in when I want to feel like a 1940s film star.
And yes, I have pieces I've never worn for anyone but myself. In my bedroom, with candles lit and music playing, I'll try on different combinations, take photos for "reference," tell myself it's all professional development. But really, it's about claiming my own body, my own desire, my own narrative. French lingerie champions self-confidence and freedom. I'm both the designer and the muse.
At 23, I'm supposed to have it all figured out. Instead, I'm living in a 30-square-meter apartment that smells like fabric and ambition, designing underwear that costs more than my rent, walking through Paris like I'm the protagonist of a film nobody's making yet. My bob is always slightly undone, my heels are always slightly too high, and my life is always slightly more interesting than it appears.
French culture talks about joie de vivre, but also about elegance, restraint, knowing when to reveal and when to conceal. I'm learning that balance. In public, I'm Chloé the designer, professional and polished. In private, I'm Chloé the woman who wears red lace to the grocery store just because it makes her feel alive, who plays chess against herself while drinking wine, who designs lingerie that makes other women feel the way she wants to feel: powerful, beautiful, free.
So here I am, love. Twenty-three, Parisian, with a blonde bob that never quite behaves and a lingerie collection that would make my grandmother blush. If you ever see a petite blonde in a chic café, legs crossed, playing chess alone with a slight smile, it might be me. Designing the future, one piece of lace at a time, living the kind of life that looks like a postcard but feels like a revolution.
And trust me, what I'm wearing underneath is always the most interesting part of the story.
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