Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was this gorgeous gal from the North Shore who was engaged to an even more gorgeous guy from the heart of the city. The guy’s name was Harris and he came from a very wealthy family – actually, both kids did.
Anyway, Harris’s parents wanted him to grow up appreciating the value of a buck just like they did, so they treated Harris like all the rest of his inner city pals, even to the point of encouraging him to “work his way through college.”
Harris went to UCLA on a swimming scholarship, and even though he really didn’t need the money, he got a job at one of the most exclusive jewelry stores in all of Beverly Hills, 90210.
Now, Harris’s boss was a very wise man and he cautioned all his salespeople to treat everyone who walked through their front door like he or she was the King or Queen of Sheeba – no matter what they looked like or how they were dressed – always taking extreme care to give their clientele the utmost in customer service. Thus, the store’s distinctive reputation was known far and wide throughout the whole land.
One day, at Christmastime, this guy walks in to the jewelry store and strides right up to our friend, Harris, for help.
The new customer wore an old, faded sweatshirt inside out with the sleeves ripped off, one of those fishing hats, brim down, with fishing flies studding random sections of the sweat band, immaculately tailored and pressed faded blue denim cutoffs, perfectly manicured nails, and a two-week growth of old beard.
After the two men exchanged pleasantries, the guy gets down to business and has Harris pull several things out of the showcases so he can inspect them closer.
“These diamond earrings – here,” he points. “That emerald bracelet - there, and the sapphire and diamond necklace from over on the end - will do for starters.”
After selecting several more pricey items, it comes time for the guy to settle up, so he tells Harris he’d like to pay by check.
Harris’s boss’s customer service advice about treating everyone with the same respect, no matter what they looked like, rang instantly in his ears.
Swallowing hard, Harris tells the guy, “I’ll have to have the manager approve your payment, sir, and would you like all your purchases gift-wrapped?”
The guy shoots Harris a smile and says, “No problem, but put ‘em all in separate bags,” and he writes out the top check of a lone pack – no checkbook jacket or register – just the solitary wad of curled-up edged checks.
When the guy tears the check off the stack and hands it to Harris, he glances down to find the new fly-fishing customer standing right before him is none other than Howard Hughes.
So, it just goes to show ya that you can’t ever judge a checkbook - even when it has no cover.
On one of my recent morning walks, I jaunted up Oak Street taking a different scenic route home than usual. Keeping one eye on all of my favorite delicious designer boutiques and the haute-est of the haute jewelry stores, and the other eye on where I was walking, I breeze past my favorite specialty store up near the corner - when a positively scrumptious school bus yellow Balenciaga bag of the moment grabs my third eye.
Don’t ask me what made me put on the brakes and hang a ninety-degree left turn right through the store’s front door, because I have no idea. Well, other than my designer bag fetish, I have no idea. And I certainly know better than to fall in love with a highly-touted handbag that hangs in the window of that place. The last time I did, I came close to selling my soul for a Fendi with the most incredibly woven, curved, horn-like handles I’ve ever seen on a handbag. Till this day, that’s one of my top five fave designer bags of all time and it occupies a lofty place in the Fashionista Purse Universe Hall of Fame.
However, once I quickly make my way through the accessories department to the little waterfall display of “the” Balenciagas perched on top of a gorgeous wood and glass Nouveau-like cabinet-cum-counter, I was darn near helpless.
Boy, they sure know how to do it with their displays, don’t they? Most of their merch is so unique, it’s easy to see why they entice the elite to come and spend, spend, spend. If you have a serious yen for the most special of the special, fashion-wise, it’s all right here.
My hands, as if possessed, instantly make a bee-line for the bag in black, natch. (Laura Law: If you’re only gonna buy one, always buy black. Especially if it’s expensive.) Besides the leather’s scent and everything else elegant about that bag, the purse’s veins of dark charcoal marbling meandered through the leather giving it an extra nice visual texture in addition to the one it already had.
Anxiously, I slide the zipper open and fish around in the inside pocket for the price tag. There it is, $1195, written plain as day - except in my designer delirium and eidetic mind I think it reads, $195. Blinking in total disbelief, I blink once again just as the salesman arrives on the scene.
I must say, that bag had such a hold on me, for several seconds I toyed with the idea of whipping out my “secret” credit card - and you gals know what I mean – and plunking it down in the salesboy’s sweaty palms - because I’ve lusted after this bag for quite some time - number one. And number two – the salesguy snively looked down his long, pointy nose at me, narrowing his eyes and raising his right eyebrow thinking, like, maybe I couldn’t afford such a designer nicety. And you know how that can tick you off when it happens. There’s almost nothing I dislike more than an arrogant sales clerk who’s a little too full of his-self.
Thankfully, my sanity kicks in just in time returning me to my rightful mind and I tell the guy, “I’ll think about it.” Dizzy from the implied insult and sounding a little too weakly matter-of-fact, I walk toward the door.
Meanwhile, this Norma Desmond-looking salesgal sashays up and snatches said Balenciaga bag right out of salesboy’s slippery mitts where I left it.
“Where’re you goin’ with that bag!” I tease.
The next thing I know, the woman turns on me like a viper freshly sprung from her basket and rushes at me with the bag held out in front of her like she’s going to rub the dang thing in my face. Seriously! Screeching as she comes closer, “You wanna buy this bag, lady? Well, do you? Here. It’s yours. Take it! How you gonna pay for it?! Huh?
Please believe me when I say, I didn’t look like any friggin’ bag lady with a high-fashion fetish, nor was I dressed poorly, either. It was rather unseasonably cold out that day and I had on my trusty $450 Spyder snowboarder’s winter walking coat, so given my upscale out-doors-y appearance, I was quite taken aback at this old prune’s posture. I’ll bet a nice walk and some fresh air would do her a bit of good.
I wouldn’t buy a stick from that store after the rude treatment I received over that Balenciaga bag – even if the two sales clerks offered to chip in and buy it for me.
Well, maybe I could be forced to forgive and forget in that instance . . . however, there is quite a lesson to be learned here and I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. So, tune in.