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Just a few moments prior to Shein unveiled a temporary store in Dijon this summer, spray-painted messages were discovered on the facade declaring, “Shein harms” and “exploitation, forced labour, slavery, pollution.”

However, the strong backlash to its series of temporary outlets across France in the past few years—such as in several major French cities—has not deterred the China-based fast fashion brand from selecting the nation for its first permanent physical stores.

Recently, it announced a plan to establish stores in a prominent department store locations in multiple urban centers and also in the BHV store in the capital.

Outside the mayor’s office, plans are underway for the new Shein megastore, which – following the decline of many French brands – aims to flood our market even more massively with short-lived goods,” stated Yann Rivoallan, president of the fashion retailers’ body a French fashion federation.

Sophie Abriat, says: “This rapid-production approach is a paroxysm of disposability. It thrives on ephemerality, with aggressive marketing.”

However, she continues, the French aversion to the trend runs much deeper: “It differs from French culture’s tradition of keeping objects, of savoir-faire – the brand carries a negative perception that is moral as well.”

Still despite such outspoken antipathy, with a Change.org petition to ban Shein in the country now having topped a quarter-million supporters, the country has not been immune to the brand’s inexorable rise over the past five years.

The company’s strategy, based on delivering purchases of cheap clothes directly from Chinese factories to customers, allegedly earned $1bn net profit last year, establishing it as not only a figurehead of “hyper-fast clothing”, but one of its most lucrative companies. That is despite concerns over its environmental impact and working practices, such as claims of coerced labor that the company has denied and instances of underage workers that led to supplier contracts being terminated.

Its success stems from the mind-boggling pace and quantity of its production styles, with 7,200 fresh products listed on the platform daily. “It marks an completely different approach of consuming – the scale is exponentially larger,” says the journalist. Between late 2022 and late 2023, the company introduced 1.5m products to the US market – roughly 37 times more than a competing retailer and 65 times more than another major brand, according to a news agency.

Around the time of the Dijon pop-up opening, the national legislature approved legislation aimed at curtailing ultra-fast fashion, particularly companies such as the brand and its extremely cheap competitor Temu. It proposed a series of steps, from eco-taxes to a prohibition of marketing, restrictions on social media partnerships, mandatory disclosure of manufacturing methods, and allocation of collected funds towards French sustainable producers.

The bill was praised by many as a step in the right direction, but sparked debate for distinguishing between what is termed “traditional” fast fashion (established brands and similar companies), and “hyper-fast clothing”. In fact, the former group faces less stringent constraints. According to some, this distinction appears to render high-street labels appear more virtuous in contrast; for others, it is seen as a way of undercutting Chinese competition.

Yet France boasts a long tradition of rapid apparel production, originating from the Sentier, Paris’s historic garment district in the 2nd and 3rd arrondissements. From the 1970s onward, the neighborhood, together with other such wholesale districts (including in Marseille), pioneered a system founded on rapid turnaround, limited runs, and localized sourcing, frequently restocked on demand instead of fixed schedules.

This fuelled the rise of popular and budget-friendly homegrown high street labels like Naf Naf, Kookaï, and Jennyfer, which thrived through the 1980s and 1990s, domestically and internationally, before outsourcing production and ultimately fading or rebranding. By the late 20th century, the local model was outpaced by international labels such as major chains, who relocated manufacturing and expanded sourcing and stock – a dynamic portrayed in the popular movie series La Vérité si je mens!, which is located in the area.

From a societal perspective, Abriat draws a parallel between the brand’s acceptance to the experience of the initial arrival of H&M when it arrived on Paris’s rue de Rivoli in the late nineties: “It was considered vulgar. The fashion elite regarded it as lacking in style or sophistication.” Now, she says, “these brands have become mainstream, widely embraced” while Shein has assumed the pariah role.

Appealing to young shoppers, H&M radically shifted its reputation with Karl Lagerfeld’s collaboration in 2004, which was exhausted in just a few hours. From then on, the French style scene started embracing affordable fashion as part of the modern French closet.

Additional major retailers sought credibility by collaborating closely with renowned industry names. Emmanuelle Alt, former editor-in-chief of Vogue Paris, worked with the Spanish brand as a creative consultant, while another influential editor, founder of a style periodical and current fashion editor at M le Magazine du Monde, has collaborated extensively with the company, on creative guidance and outfit curation. A fashion figure a well-known model walked in an H&M runway show. and French model Aymeline Valade has appeared in a brand catalog and publicly admitted to a fashion title that she buys from the store, for essential items.

A writer and influencer, comments: “In the capital, it is now normal to mix affordable brands, secondhand finds, and high-end pieces, each selected with skill. Parisians avoid visiting Zara for bold items or counterfeits, but for everyday essentials: classic clothing items.” Hardly anyone confesses to actually wearing the brand in daily life, though. “You don’t say it,” notes the influencer. “Or one might remark: ‘You won’t believe it, but this is from Zara.’”

One major distinction regarding the new brand is its digital footprint, which represents a cultural shift for more mature shoppers. A bilingual content creator an industry voice, explains: “The French still like to shop in stores, accompanied by loved ones, during weekends. They don’t change outfits radically to go out in the evening, their purchases are less compulsive.”

Some of the attraction of ultra fast fashion stems from its size inclusivity: for many consumers, it remains the only brand that caters to diverse body types. Larger-size offerings is still virtually non-existent in France, especially among premium brands.

Rapid-turnaround apparel has also introduced novel shopping habits: digital purchases, avoiding try-ons, and bulk ordering. Clothing items are often worn once, discarded or resold on secondhand platforms – a significant change in how wardrobes are assembled and maintained.

Charrière stresses that there can be a “slow” way of wearing fast fashion: “One shouldn’t torture oneself for purchasing fast fashion. I own Zara dresses from five years ago that I still wear. To me the key factor is to make an effort to use what I buy … to commit to wearing it.” {While that doesn