The Key to Life? It’s in a Handbag
I don’t care what they say about the death of ostentation, the end of luxury goods and the world’s new emphasis on subdued elegance. I love my insanely expensive purse--a Christian Dior “trailer trash” bag--and everything it says about me, money and the value of being fashionably idiotic.
In hindsight, being shallow and irresponsible led to one of my most satisfying shopping experiences. It’s safe to admit that now. Back in October, right when the world’s sense of security was lost, the idea of spending lavishly on luxury goods was not only distasteful but very nearly disrespectful of the suffering on the East Coast and in Afghanistan. Just when I and many of my fashion colleagues were ready to shovel the dirt over fashion’s long era of luxury, this silly and fabulous purse has taught me a lesson about enjoying life.
As a self-supporting journalist, not an heiress who works for the sport of it, I’m very careful with my cash. Years of traveling to Europe haven’t relaxed my grip, even when the foreign exchange rates often cut the cost of designer goods by nearly 50%. Half of $2,000 is still a lot more than I’m comfortable spending on a cotton shirt or trendy ripped jeans. Even my financial advisor has to remind me that savings exist to help improve the quality of life.
Yet I had absolutely no intention of making a major purchase when I wandered into the Dior boutique across from my Rue Bonaparte hotel in Paris. Let’s just say this: There’s nothing like spending 24 consecutive days at the footlights of 50 designer runway shows to drive your desire for a piece of catwalk fantasy. In the past, I had never succumbed to temptation. I was immune to the mystique of the practical Prada backpack and the allure of the glittering Fendi baguette, impervious to the charms of the graffiti-splattered Louis Vuitton tote. Though each of those handbags hit the top of fashion’s must-have chart at one time or another, for all their exclusivity, they spoke of conformity.
They were recognizable status symbols that announced the wearer’s dedication to a set of values that I’d often found distasteful. Conspicuous consumption has kept me in a fashion job for years, so I’m not especially against it--for other people. But what is the sense of spending $500 or $1,500 on a bit of leather that will be declared passe in six months?
Sunglasses, on the other hand, are easier for a professional tightwad to rationalize because they’re an everyday accessory. So before I even thought about a handbag that fateful fall day, I’d consoled myself with a pair of mirrored, blade-style Diors that, when I don’t comb my hair, make me look like a dissolute rock star. The $200 glasses scratched my shopping itch only for as long as it took to sign the credit card receipt.
At that moment, I spied two teenagers in jeans, with scuffed tennis shoes and ... sacrebleu! ... Dior handbags slung under their taut little arms. These children possessed designer originals, and I, a mature, hard-working, deserving woman, was a designer bag virgin. That’s when I weakened. Hanging in a window was a sickly green version of the sculpted bag that I had seen on Dior’s runway a year earlier in John Galliano’s controversial “trailer park” collection. Critics unfamiliar with the trappings of lower-class America had missed the wonderful irony in the show, which glorified the unheralded status symbols of an often invisible class.
Though Dior named my bag the “trailer,” to me it’s clear that Galliano created the purses from the look of Cadillacs, once the pinnacle of American success. He gave the bags perforated tuck-and-roll upholstery, sleek car door handles, reflectors, a mini-Cadillac steering wheel, a metallic finish and a license plate that reads Chris 1947, for the year Dior opened his Avenue Montaigne boutique.
I asked the clerk innocently: Does that bag come in any other colors? “Oui, madame.” Out came the black and cherry-red version that actually raised my heart rate. In red, it was the ultimate L.A. bag, part vintage Cadillac, part Fender guitar. With that on my arm, I’d possess fashion credibility, a valuable currency in my profession.
I didn’t even stop to calculate the francs. All I know is that on Rodeo Drive, that bag sells for $1,200, more than my first year of college tuition. Though the favorable exchange rate and a rebate of the French value-added tax knocked as much as $400 off that price, I feel like I got a bargain for another reason. It simply makes me happy. Even better, it makes many other people light up with amusement too.
The first time I carried it in public, Rose Marie Bravo, the top executive of Burberry, asked to inspect it and dubbed it “a marvel of engineering.” I actually received great, fawning service in every Beverly Hills boutique I entered later that day, especially at Dior, where I was handed a catalog of the collection (obviously I was now perceived as a person of taste). I consider it entirely the work of the bag that I was no longer invisible to clerks at Barneys New York and Saks Fifth Avenue, where, shamefully, I have rarely been offered assistance (maybe I should start combing my hair?).
To strangers, the bag may have hinted that I was rich. More important, it certified my style expertise, but not because it was a recognizable, status bag to fashion insiders. Its whimsy was infectious. A grandfatherly clerk at Rizzoli declared it “very original” as he smiled at it. The hip young chick at French Connection suddenly had to know what shade of lipstick I was wearing (it matched the red of the bag). Even the valet parking attendant asked where he could buy one for his girlfriend. I coughed when he asked the price and doubled his tip.
Suddenly, with my new bag, I was younger, hipper, cooler, even though by a teenager’s count, I’m practically an old bag myself. Buying that purse, and surviving guilt-free, helped pry open my wallet for bigger, more important purchases. On the spur of the moment a few days ago, I bought a house. Big flashy handbags may be out of the question for a while as my husband and I juggle our new financial profile.
Of course, that $1,200 could have bought the ultimate washer and dryer, fresh backyard landscaping or an increase in my charitable donations. When I head back to Paris for next month’s collections, I’m planning a return trip to Dior. There’s this cute--and affordable--accessory to my Cadillac purse: the matching license plate key chain.
