Author: Riley Hooper
I’m strutting down Rodeo Drive with the type of confident swagger that can only be induced by a good pair of heels. I’m hoping that my black leather peep toes paired with a designer handbag will allow me to blend in with the social elite so that I may try on the most expensive, most ridiculous dress this infamously glamorous shopping destination has to offer.
I’m walking the walk. The real question is: Can I talk the talk?
For me, the lavish land of extravagance and decadence that is Rodeo holds a certain mystique. I’m not quite sure what to expect. In terms of fashion, I anticipate some crazy, expensive merchandise-like diamond encrusted gowns, or nobody-would-ever-wear-that-except-on-the-runway dresses made out of feathers from exotic Brazilian birds. When it comes to trying such dresses on, I’m anticipating some difficulty-like Julia-Roberts’-first-attempt-at-Rodeo-in-Pretty-Woman difficulty (except I’m not a prostitute, so maybe not that much).
To avoid suspicion and confrontation, my accomplice Sarah and I go over our game plan one more time. Walk in like you own the place. Be nice, but assertive. Avoid too much chatting with the salespeople. If asked, I’ll say I’m from Orange County and the dress is for a gala for my father’s company.
I can’t tell a lie to save my life, so I’m feeling a little nervous as we step through the doors of Neiman Marcus and head up the escalator to women’s fashion. Unfortunately the dress, which is partly covered in what looks like goose feathers, is not my size. So I decide to try on a floor length gown of hot pink silk with a price tag of $2,995.
With the mystique of Rodeo clouding my brain, for some reason I begin to think that rich people have a different protocol for trying on clothes and I panic. Do I just ask to try it on? How should I ask? I don’t see any dressing rooms. Are there even dressing rooms? After much frantic deliberation, I inform the saleslady that I’d like to try this dress on. She leads me to the dressing room and I try it on.
My confidence level temporarily rises, but is promptly shot down upon visiting the nearby boutique Baracci. Even from outside I can tell this place is a gold mine when it comes to over-the-top dresses. The mannequins showcase slinky, form-fitting gowns, bedecked in jewels and verging on ensembles only to be worn on an ice skating rink.
We step inside and only have a few seconds to peruse the gaudy gowns before we’re approached by a large, important looking man in a suit who proceeds to interrogate me in a thick Middle-Eastern accent.
“What are you looking for? What is your event? When is it?” he asks, explaining that they have lists of all the important events, who’s going and what they’re wearing. I stick to my alibi, trying to cover my ass by playing the rich, dumb OC girl. “It’s just some thing for my dad’s company,” I say. “I don’t know much about it.”
“So your father sent you out to pick up a dress? What price range did he give you?” he asks. Trying my best to sound completely serious, I respond, “Around five to 10,” (thousand, of course). The man responds that they do indeed fit into that price range, but goes on to explain that they have personal relationships with their clients, who usually call before coming in (name dropping that they have done Beyonce, Christina Milian and even Eddie Murphy’s recent wedding). “It’s hard to work with you when we don’t know you,” he offers as an explanation. We take the hint and decide to come back once my father calls in.
We have better luck at Versace. As we wind up the shiny black marble staircase, we’re greeted by the salesman. I show interest in a lovely yellow chiffon number on a mannequin, and the salesman actually suggests I try it on. He proceeds to undress the mannequin, explaining that they just got the dress in today and that it’s the only one in the store, not to mention one of very few in the US, as each country only received a very limited amount.
“I’m actually excited for you to try it on,” he tells me. “I haven’t seen it on a human model yet.”
It soon becomes apparent that the salesman is into my “human model.” He explains the complicated procedure of how to put on this wrap around dress, and adds that he’s not gay so, sadly, he can’t come in to the dressing room to help.
As Sarah and I attempt to wrap me up, the salesman sends his “visual guy” in to help out, saying, “Don’t worry, he’s gay so he won’t get turned on.” Finally I’m wrapped in what is apparently $7,985 worth of chiffon. Now the salesman decides I need heels, so he leaves to find some six-inch white-and-gold platform ones.
The heels are on and I’m standing at about 6’2″. Attempting my best runway strut, I precariously make my way out of the dressing room to a larger mirror on the sales floor. I soon realize that $7,985 worth of chiffon is not enough material to prevent the dress from being transparent from the waist down. I become slightly embarrassed, but the salesman assures me that my undergarments are “cute.” I thank him and promptly head back to the dressing room.
The saleswoman at Valentino isn’t as helpful, especially after I drop a $2,000 black silk gown on the floor-twice. In my defense, it was a really slippery material and it was on a poorly designed hanger.
At Roberto Cavalli, I reach the pinnacle of expensive dresses when I try on a long, white gown with beaded detailing fit for a Greek goddess, priced at $9,635. “Where are you going?” asks the salesman as I come out of the dressing room. “Oh, just a gala, dinner party sort of thing,” I reply. “I’m not sure if this is too fancy.” I have no idea if he’s taking me seriously.
I have no idea if anyone took me seriously that day. The whole time I never quite understood what I was doing to be accepted-or if I was even being accepted-among the social elite.
The mystique of Rodeo lingers. Why is it that, in the past, as a wide-eyed tourist, I wouldn’t have even fathomed trying something on-and yet, when I put on a different persona, trying on a $10,000 dress was no big deal?
I guess I didn’t need money to be accepted on Rodeo Drive, I just needed to convince people I had money. And hey, if you can convince people your thrift store dress is worth a million bucks by the way you carry yourself, who needs Roberto Cavalli anyway?
This article has been archived, for more requests please contact us via the support system.
