The Fashionista Files (15 page)

HOW TO SMELL A BAD KNOCKOFF A MILE AWAY

Misspellings. There’s no such thing as a Kate Spude bag, but come on, we didn’t need to tell you that.

Discolorations of any kind. Be aware of the exact hues of the authentic version, whether you study it in person or in a magazine, so you can compare and contrast.

Examine the zippers. A real bag will have a sturdy zipper of a certain kind, so before making an investment in what might be a fake, check out the real thing and take note of the color of the zipper, the thickness, the weight, and any engravings on the metal. If the Louis Vuitton zipper is gold, don’t buy a bag that has one in silver.

Glue remnants. Fakes often have labels that are glued, not sewn, on.

Crooked stitching.

You found it in Chinatown.

The feel of the fabric. Fakes are notoriously stiff and rigid.

Look at the lining. The color and textile of the inside of a handbag—if it’s bad—is a dead giveaway.

Open the bag and search for a stamp or label inside. Make sure it doesn’t peel off and that it’s centered.

SPLURGE! OUR BIGGEST-TICKET ITEMS, GOD BLESS THEM!

The Girl’s Gotta Have It!
KAREN

Here is the thing about splurging. It’s like having the most decadent, delicious, sumptuous, silken cupcake that tickles your taste buds into sugar-induced ecstasy. If you’ve never had one, you’re fine. You don’t need one. You don’t know what you’re missing. The second you do, you’re hooked, transformed, full of urging—and you wind up craving more and more and more, thinking,
It was so
good the first time, it doesn’t matter if I do it again . . . and again . . .
and again.
Over time you’re getting two, three, four, five at a time . . . and possibly gaining fifteen pounds. Shopping big is no different. Once you buck up to higher and higher price levels for fashion, it has a tendency to become a habit as de rigueur as getting the morning paper.

My splurging infatuation began innocently, as all bad habits do. ’Twas the summer of 1998. My aforementioned friend Sally was getting married. And as a part of the wedding party, I was allowed to wear whatever I wanted, as long as it was a soft candy shade of pastel pink. The ceremony was an urban-hip affair at an all-white loft in Chelsea. I searched high and low for something that was sexy and cool and that I could wear again. Trips to Barneys, the boho hippie store Calypso, a little fashionista boutique called Jane Mayle on Elizabeth Street, and Bergdorf Goodman got me nowhere. I came close at Cynthia Rowley with a strapless, tight, short satin dress, but not close enough (it didn’t do great things to my armpit area). I found an amazing hot-pink skirt and camisole, but Sally put the kibosh on it. Too bright, she said. Saks and Bloomingdale’s had nothing. And this was before my days of thinking it was acceptable to pop into Gucci, Dior, YSL, or some kind of major designer store where things start at $1,000 (however, it was this very search that wound up leading me to such future behavior).

I was frustrated. And my $500 budget kept getting higher and higher. I went to Los Angeles to visit a guy I was dating at the time and I figured I’d surely find something there. That city is all about color. But the groovy stores like Curve and all the shops on Robert-son were barren in the pink department. Finally I went to Fred Segal Santa Monica. I fell for a slip dress by Patty Shelabarger, but it was too small. Out of curiosity I stepped into the “couture” department. And there it was. The first thing I saw—a lovely baby pink V-neck, superfitted Blumarine short-sleeved sweater with a rabbit-fur (detachable) collar and pink pearlized flower-shaped buttons down the front. Stunning. I tried it on with a pink Pucci shantung silk skirt of the exact same shade. And the guy I was with popped out of his seat and yelped, “This is the one. I’m in love with you.”

It was $1,800 in total. And I couldn’t get one piece without the other. Finding matching pinks like this almost never happens. I couldn’t imagine dropping such a load on one outfit. But I could wear the skirt with anything, and that sweater was a classic—with white pants, jeans, little miniskirts. I put it on hold for a day so I could think about it. I agonized over doing it or not. The next day I called back and asked to keep it on hold for another day. This went on for four days until—after a fight with the guy that caused me to leave his house and stay with a friend—I said, “Screw it! I’ll doll myself up in something extraordinary and find a new boyfriend.” And that was that. Don’t think I wasn’t breaking out in a cold sweat, clutching my friend Jennifer’s hand as I gave the saleswoman my ATM card, which sucked the money right out of the bank! In fact, I felt sick about what I had done until the day of the wedding. When I put it on—along with baby-pink roses in my hair and silver high heels—it made me feel glamorous and adult. I got over the $1,100 sweater and $700 skirt after the bride and groom had their first dance and some cute guy I had my eye on told me I was a knockout. After that, $400, $500, $600, even $800 sweaters didn’t seem so outrageously priced. Not compared to the Blumarine.

The same thing happened soon after with boots. I was dying for a knee-high pair, but had no luck due to my very muscular calves (a result of gymnastics and genes). In the beginning of the trying-on-boots marathon, I thought maybe I’d splurge by dropping $400 or so. After nothing zipped—or allowed my blood to circulate to my feet—I decided to go into the Manolo Blahnik store. It was my first time behind the doors (before that, I had always salivated in front of the window, dreaming of the day I could afford them). Among the pressed, nipped, tucked, manicured, blown-out, made-up shoppers in the “shoe salon,” I felt like a bit of a misfit (maybe it was the Rollerblades and Adidas sweats).

Then Ben, an angelic Asian man with satin butt-length black hair and a perfect size-two body, came to my rescue. “Cutie, how can I help you?” he said sweetly. I explained my plight. Before I could finish, he had the solution—stretch suede chocolate four-inch-heel pointy-toed boots. They were divine. I slipped them on, and just like that I was in heaven. I handed over my credit card without asking about the price (I heard that money is not to be discussed at Manolo!) and almost puked when I got the receipt back—$1,200. I thought,
I’d better wear these to
death.
And I did—and still do. They remain my favorite boots. They’re incredibly comfortable. They hug the curve of the legs just so. They look smashing with pants, denim, and skirts of all hemlines. And just like that, spending $400, $500, $600, $700, $800, $900, $1,000 on footwear stopped feeling painful.

The $1,200 Manolos in all their glory

It became—scarily—normal. Just don’t ask me how I allowed myself to get $2,000 pants! I still haven’t quite recovered from that one.

It Happens to the Best of Us
MELISSA

I don’t have a “biggest splurge” story. Most of my clothes are in the $50 range, marked down from $500. I’ve never paid more than $500 for a handbag (usually they are down from $1,200 to $2,000). When I was working as a computer consultant, I spent my Christmas bonus on “real” things, like throwing my parents their twentyfifth anniversary party at the Yale Club, or buying a new computer, or paying off my college loans.

My biggest clothing splurges at the time consisted of a fitted military greatcoat in black cashmere with brass buttons that was reminiscent of Madonna’s, which I found in a cute West Village boutique for $300. (I paid full price, which is a “splurge” for me.) At the time, I wasn’t the label whore I am now, and I don’t even remember who made the coat, only that it was an extremely flattering cut and kept me warm all winter. (Oh, for the days when I could be satisfied by such things!)

So, no, I don’t have a splurge story.

What I do have is a story about the time I fainted at the Marc Jacobs outlet. It was the year of my wedding. Also known as the year I left my corporate job and started to freelance. Otherwise known as the year I didn’t buy any shoes. Or the year without fashion. Even though my parents and Mike’s parents each kicked in the price of a fancy new car to help foot the bill for our wedding, Mike and I were still several thousand dollars short. Money was very, very tight, and there was no room in our budget for my frivolous shopping habits.

But my husband, being a kind man, had agreed we could visit the outlet mall that summer. I left him at the food court and walked around, eagle-eyed, as I tried to make the most of my visit. I knew I wouldn’t get another chance to spend on myself for the next six months. I walked into the Marc Jacobs outlet.

90 PERCENT OFF CLEARANCE SALE! the signs read.

My heart started to beat wildly. At the time, Marc Jacobs was my absolute favorite designer. I died for his puff-sleeved jackets, his satin prom dresses, his “San Francisco”–seamed jeans. I gingerly stepped toward a rack and began to feverishly riffle through it. I looked at the price tags . . . $10 for a chiffon tank top, $17 for a cashmere sweater, $29 for a silk printed dress . . . I swooned. It was like a dream I wasn’t sure had come true. I felt dizzy. I started to have double vision. The world became pixelated, little colored dots like a computer or a Seurat painting.

The next thing I knew, I was looking up at Mike’s face.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I was on the floor. Everyone was staring at me. What had happened?

I had fainted! Oh, my God. I was so embarrassed. My skirt was in a bunch and my sandals had fallen off my feet. “They had to go through your wallet, and found my number on your cell phone.” He said, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Let’s get out of here,” I mumbled. I couldn’t face the other shoppers, or the concerned salesclerks. I told Mike it was probably because I hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning, but I knew the truth. I couldn’t believe the prices. It just didn’t seem possible that I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to buy such expensive things for so little money. The whole premise seemed insane.

I walked around for an hour to clear my head. Finally, when I deemed myself calm enough to shop, I reentered the store. I needed a cool head, after all, to be able to work through the sale carefully instead of helter-skelter grabbing at the loot like a starving vulture. I spent close to $250 and came home with my whole summer wardrobe. The store even had shoes for $10, but alas, they were all size ten! It was one of the best days of my life. So no, I don’t have a crazy biggest-splurge story. Oh, wait. I just remembered that a year later I purchased a beautiful sky-blue Marc Jacobs coat for $1,500. But it was marked down from $7,000, so really, it doesn’t count.

WHEN IT’S OKAY TO GO ALL THE WAY

There are some days when it’s acceptable—even necessary, to shell out the big bucks for just the right outfit.

For a special occasion. Don’t scrimp on your wedding dress, a black-tie gown, or an outfit for your graduation portrait. Those pictures will last forever.

A good winter coat. It is an investment that will pay off over the years.

Good shoes and bags. The right bags and shoes pull together any outfit. Also, you will always feel better knowing you are wearing leather, not plastic, unless the shoes are by Stella, who uses plastic and charges $500.

Cashmere. It’s worth it to spend the amount to buy four-ply winter warmth from an Italian designer. The knockoffs at the mall are not even close to the real thing.

JUSTIFY YOUR LOVE

Shopping—or overshopping, rather—can lead to grief, anxiety, and stress. But don’t feel bad about yourself. True or false, here are some foolproof mantras that will ease your pain.

I’m not selfish. It’s for my daughter . . . someday.

I deserve it. (This is a good time to find something positive about yourself, whether you got a good grade in school, did a great job at work, or lost those three pesky pounds. A girl’s got to reward herself, you know.)

I only live once.

I don’t have a child to support. I’m not married. I have no mortgage. I don’t have to be responsible just yet.

I won’t buy anything for the rest of the season. (This one can be used over and over again. As long as you believe it at the time, it’ll do the trick.)

I won’t go out to dinner for the rest of the month. I’ll make my own coffee instead of spending $5 at Starbucks. And I’ll give up luxuries like taxicabs and Charmin TP to make up for the expense.

It makes me look really thin. (There is no price tag on skinniness.)

It’s a size smaller than I normally am! (See above. Feeling svelte is invaluable.)

It’s for a very special occasion and I will treat it with the utmost respect and care.

It’s a classic. I’ll have it forever. (Who cares if it’s a hot-pink velvet capelet with an Edwardian-inspired ruffled neck that you’ll wear only once?)

BUY IT OR LEAVE IT?

Can’t figure out if you should get it or not? This is your guide to making strategic shopping decisions:

Has it been editorialized (meaning: shown in all the magazines) to death? If so, it’s a no-go. It will be right for only that particular season. However, if it’s smashing on, it may be worth the splurge . . . but herein lies the rub: After it’s had its moment of glory, you can’t wear it for at least five to eight years. When you do, you can call it vintage.

Can you buy something exactly like it at J.Crew, Club Monaco, the Gap, or Banana Republic? If so, get it there and save the splurge for something special no one else sees every day.

How do you feel in it? Fierce, slammingly hot, and amazingly thin? If so, run, don’t walk, to the cash register.

If you don’t love, love, love it, leave, leave, leave it. Don’t lay out a large sum of cash on something that doesn’t rock your world.

If you say “It would look better if . . . (I lost ten pounds, I were four inches taller),” don’t get it. It’s not worth the pressure (sometimes!).

If you’re afraid you won’t wear it, you probably won’t. Enough said.

If you are dying for it but don’t think it has a purpose in your life or closet, get it and create a purpose for it. It will make you feel decadently lavish and fabulous.

Remember that comfort and moving are overrated. It’s okay if you can’t walk in a pair of shoes or sit in a tight skirt. If it looks good, that’s all that matters.