Homework : Fashion: A growing number of entrepreneurs have turned their living rooms into home shopping clubs. They are selling everything from jewelry, shoes and classic clothes to menswear.
Tracey Allen ate breakfast with her investment-banker husband, made the nursery-school run, changed into a chic suit, tied her hair back with a pretty bow, slipped into stylish pumps, and went off to work.
In her elegant French-Provincial living room.
Allen, a former department-store executive who gave up her career after a second child, has found a new one. She sells pricey clothing and accessories in her Los Angeles home. Flexible hours and a chance to be her own boss has brought Allen into the world of direct sales.
Working as an independent contractor with the New-York-based Worth Collection, she invites customers in to view upscale merchandise. Other companies like their contractors to make house and office calls. Still others favor the Avon/Tupperware party approach, where a hostess supplies the guest list and the refreshments.
The basic idea dates back to the Depression, when North Carolina-based Doncaster stayed afloat by branching out from shirts to shirtwaist dresses, which were sold in homes.
Today, the idea in all its variations is spreading. Entrepreneurs like the promise of six-figure salaries. Consumers like the convenience, the personal attention and the prestige of having their very own “wardrobe consultant” who offers everything from hand-decorated T-shirts to custom-tailored three-piece suits.
In a scenario typical of the upscale market, Allen shows a new collection four times a year. She converts her living room into a boutique, complete with floral arrangements, a full-length mirror and rolling racks filled with classic, designer merchandise--from belts to blazers to brunch-bunch dresses.
She walks and talks as many as 14 customers a day through the collection’s mix-and-match capabilities. And when the orders arrive, she is waiting with a seamstress, to make free last-minute adjustments on apparel priced from $195 to $450.
Allen’s initial investment was $250--to cover training manuals, order forms and other essential supplies. In addition to her own earnings, she gets commissions on the sales of the 10 associates she brought into the company. Encouraged by women in the field “who make over $100,000 a year,” she hopes to be one of them.
“What’s driving this is the same thing that is driving discount stores and factory outlets: People are cutting out retailers,” explains Mack Davis, associate professor of clinical entrepreneurship at USC.
“You feel safer in your own surroundings,” he adds in a litany of reasons consumers prefer the bypass. “Any time you go into any type of retail outfit, you feel threatened. You (think) you are going to be overcharged. . . . Most of these people (who sell at home) build up loyalty. You trust them.”
Most direct-sales companies rely on satisfied customers to spread the gospel. Carlisle Collection, based in New York, is an exception. It advertises in fashion magazines and refuses to talk to any publication that mentions the competition--Worth and Doncaster--or Tupperware.
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Image is a concern in an industry best known for house parties and the doorbell-ringing Avon lady. The Worth Collection, for example, frowns on the party atmosphere. Company President Caroline Davis explains: “To have the full attention of the associate, it’s best for clients to come in one at a time. And it’s not really a good idea to have food around the clothing.”
But Texas-based Americana insists on a party presentation for its $12 to $150 costume jewelry. And it’s not always money that draws people into the organization.
Onley Cahill, a Boston film producer who moved to Los Angeles last year, says she joined “as a way to meet people.” Her first party, held in a relative’s ritzy home, drew 17 women, many of them from the film industry, and earned Cahill $250 plus a $300 jewelry credit.
Confetti, a Northern California manufacturer of hand-decorated clothing, also prefers the party approach. Cheri Lee, a Van Nuys office manager who once sold Tupperware, recently held eight Confetti parties in six weeks. Selling cotton separates for $19 to $35 each, she concedes: “I’m not going to get rich. But I like getting out, meeting and talking to people.” She also likes the merchandise and can purchase five outfits a month for 50% off.
In a field peppered with perks, one of the most unusual is offered by Tom James. The Texas-based manufacturer of ready-and-custom-made menswear presents each sales associate with a $1,500 business wardrobe--which they pay off with their tie sales, no matter how long it takes.
To increase his customer base--and rack up those tie orders--Deepak Chhatwal, sales manager of Tom James’ Culver City office, goes into unfamiliar offices and solicits names of senior executives from receptionists.
Two years ago, Richard Herzer, head of International House of Pancakes, accepted a cold call from Chhatwal and became a true believer.
“I hate shopping. Schlepping through stores to find what I like is pretty much a pain,” says Herzer. By contrast, Chhatwal, a 35-year-old business-school graduate, arrives at Herzer’s office with color photographs, hundreds of fabric swatches and “10 to 15 things he recommends each time.”
In a similar flight from conventional shopping, Los Angeles lawyer Nancy Bennett has turned to Doncaster. Four times a year, she visits the home of Cheryl Van Tassel, a friend and former model. With $60 to $600 classic separates displayed boutique-style--and a video of the collection playing atop the grand piano--Bennett makes her choices.
“I usually come with a couple friends and we have fun. This is like back to a small town. It’s the intimacy, the humanness of it, versus the coldness of stores where you see the same things everywhere.”
Even so, she knows home boutiques aren’t for everyone. “I’ve talked with a lot of lawyers in my office. They think it’s a great idea because it’s a time saver. But most people want to shop sales--they want the bargains.”
And because of the waiting period for direct-sales orders, “this isn’t for the woman who wants it right away, wants it today,” says Bobbi Arjo, a Doncaster district manager.
For women willing to wait, Master Design, a small Torrance company, offers limited-edition classic wardrobe components. Sold to women in their offices, the merchandise includes $500 power suits with such details as custom-made buttons.
Women who like the merchandise but not the prices can wait for the July sale. “We take clothing back and resell it for the customer,” explains owner Loretta Pierce, noting that a previously owned $500 suit goes for $100.
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Distributors pay $15,000 to start up their own Master Design business and, like Joan Badjik, they are free to add innovations. The 32-year-old former theology student recently concluded a deal with Neiman Marcus to sell its shoes--catalogue style--along with the clothing and jewelry.
While Master Design limits itself to office calls, Jacob/Keillor, a Newport Beach company, uses a number of direct-sales techniques, from perks to parties to private visits.
Deborah Keillor and Hillary Jacobs got the idea for their company two years ago when “we needed some extra money to buy Christmas presents,” says Jacobs, 27, who dropped the “s” in the company name for business purposes.
She was a sales rep, and Keillor, 30, was a designer. They gathered showroom samples on consignment, sold them in party fashion “and made $4,000 each in a week,” recalls Jacobs.
Now they have 30 independent contractors--ranging from actresses and young mothers to Jacobs’ mother--in California and New Mexico. They sell private-label contemporary sportswear, including silk suits, lace vests, “vintage” dresses, poet blouses and palazzo pants, at about 20% less than department store prices, according to Jacobs. As an example, she cites a $52.50 lace vest that retails elsewhere for as much as $72.
Lori Brodel is one faithful customer of the $28 to $200 merchandise. “I tend to like conservative elegance. You would never see me with leggings, cutoffs, Army boots and a tube top,” says the thirty-something Los Angeles film broker.
She buys one-on-one by appointment. Or she goes to the end-of-season sale parties, which she enthusiastically describes:
“There are racks of clothes in one room, usually the living room. Then they take a bedroom or two where everyone strips down. It’s like a slumber party. Everyone wears her best underwear and we swap clothes. It’s camaraderie with people you don’t even know, and a lot of compliments get tossed around.”
It is a scene that wouldn’t suit Tracey Allen. Or Caroline Davis, who went from Doncaster employee, to co-founder of the Carlisle Collection (which she sold to her business partner “because of a major disagreement”) to starting all over with the Worth Collection.
“Please don’t use Tupperware,” she begs, “although I understand it is a quick way of telling someone what we do. I would rather say we sell clothing in homes to an upscale luxury market.”
