Adventures of an Undercover Browser

When I go shopping (and I go more than I’d like to admit), the service I receive as a typical fashion-minded twentysomething is standard: polite, if unimpressive. But in the city’s ultra-elite shops, sales staffers have a long-standing reputation for, well, snootiness. To find out whether the perception is on the mark or simply an age-old retail rumor, I hit some of Boston’s priciest stores in four disguises designed to test the staff’s snub factor: geek, goth, VIP, and mom-to-be. Each time my high-end hit list was the same—Chanel, Valentino, Louis Boston, Alan Bilzerian, and Serenella. But the results? All over the map.
 
1. As Jan, an Iowan who prefers colorful clothing with a relaxed fit and conservative design, I’m seeking a “snappy ensemble to wear to my cousin Sheila’s wedding.” At Chanel, a salesman named Michael gently explains that this season’s collection is very “goth” and colorless. Nonetheless, he buzzes around helpfully. I try a $5,000 pinkish tweed jacket and complain it’s too small. Eager to please, though, Michael promises to call me if larger sizes arrive before the big event. The ladies at Alan Bilzerian take their sweet time addressing me and my bad hair. After several minutes, Tracy makes an obligatory offer of assistance. Why are things so expensive? I ask. As her frustration grows, I lay it on even thicker. We chat a bit about a $400 blouse before I leave, empty-handed. I can tell Tracy’s thankful to see me go. My next stop is Valentino, where the saleswoman is nice, if a bit dull. When I insist on a color other than red, she suggests I try Marc Jacobs. At Louis Boston, eight staffers notice me combing the racks but continue gabbing. After exactly 14 minutes of being ignored, I initiate contact with one, who looks at me blankly before turning to coo over a coworker’s “fabulous” pullover. Two minutes later, she deigns to address me, looking me up and down before concluding that I’m “tall and, uh, fairly thin” so I should be okay wearing anything. The sales gal at Serenella, Jan’s final stop, is all business, even as I balk loudly at the prices: “Three thousand for a dress? That’s as much as I’d spend on a car!” Realizing I’ve probably gone overboard, I bolt. She bids me a polite farewell. 


2. As Raquella von Smirnoffberg, a European heiress with a reality-TV deal, I require a five-person entourage and, of course, a limo. I enter each shop only after my “bodyguard” says it’s okay, with my dramatic “publicist” announcing my VIP status to whoever will listen. Chanel is bustling, but when we saunter in, the sales team switches into starstruck mode. They beam and nod as my posse approaches me with suggestions, but they never get close. Alan Bilzerian’s shop gals aren’t so impressed. When my publicist informs Tracy and Dolly that I’m “particular and quite fussy,” they respond, “Oh? Well, we’re fussy, too.” I secretly appreciate their sarcasm, and like them all the more. At Valentino, I pout as I sashay through the store. The staff is pleasant if unremarkable, haphazardly pulling a smattering of overly grown-up suits and dresses. We storm into Louis and fan out across the women’s floor. As an attentive salesgirl suggests Balenciaga pieces to one of my flunkies, I dial his cell from across the department. He tells her, “It’s Raquella; she wants to go. Don’t take it personally.” When the Serenella staffers realize I’m “somebody,” they jump into high gear, trotting out outfit after outfit in hopes of approval. We can barely stand their hyperprofessionalism, so we bop down to Jasmine Sola for a bonus round. A perky coed aims to please, proffering a slew of options while the other girls watch from the wings.

Go on to the next page to see Rachel dressed as Cinder, "the goth," and pregnant Jessi with her baby-daddy....