When you work in fashion, the question of what is luxury comes up a lot.

What constitutes luxury is not necessarily the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous nonsense that we’ve been fed over the years – the superyachts and gold dresses and the marble and gilt gaudiness of a Trump Tower.

Luxury, everyday luxury, is more about the small treats, like having a favourite cup for your tea or coffee in the morning, or a throw rug that feels particularly tactile and comforting to curl up in while you are watching Netflix.

Comfort is luxury, and not having to try too hard is luxury. I remember the few times I’ve ever been dressed to the nines in high heels and unforgiving clothes with earrings that hurt and scuba-tight Spanx holding it all together and it felt very far from luxurious.

I was searching the internet recently looking at hotels in Paris, and was oohing and aaahing over one particular six-star establishment that I longed to stay at, where the nightly room rate was about my monthly income.

Hotel rooms and all their perks might seem like luxury. Then again, not really. Photo: Getty

I passed my laptop over to a friend to get his opinion: “What exactly would make this a luxury experience, one that is worth that much?” he asked in that annoyingly practical, non-emotional and sensible way that men do.

I figured that me just saying, “Thread count, duh” wasn’t going to cut it.

Bulgari bath gel? Slightly thicker towelling slippers?

“Well look at the gorgeous restaurant,” I said sulkily.

“It looks so stitched-up,” was his answer. “I’d feel like I had to wear a jacket at breakfast”.

I cast around for other reasons that particular hotel would make me happy, noting with alarm that a continental breakfast costs 65 euros, and then I realised he was quite right.

The real luxury would be walking the streets of Paris for hours knowing there was nowhere else I had to be.

It may be part of getting older, but a lack of fuss, about anything, feels more special to me.

I joined in a conversation last week with some of the young women in my workplace who were having apparently very major hairdresser issues.

“I can’t go back to that salon again, I’m really unhappy with this mess,” said one, whose long, straight, centre-parted hair looked perfectly fine to me.

“I know, it’s difficult isn’t it, I absolutely hate this haircut, but I just can’t change salons now,” said another with long, straight, centre-parted hair.

Jennifer Lawrence’s centre part and straight hair – it’s almost a uniform. Photo: Getty

“Look at the mess they’ve made with mine!” said a third, dramatically tugging at her long, straight, centre-parted hair.

Gee, this trendy and uber expensive Sydney hair salon, which to all intents and purposes seems to basically just trim long, straight-centre parted hair, was really getting them riled.

They turned to me. “What salon do you go to?”

“I don’t,” I replied.

“I go to my hairdresser’s house and he washes my hair over the kitchen sink, and cuts it on the balcony while we both have a glass of wine.”

Now that is luxury.