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The Beauty of Fake

Attention shoppers: If you have the connections, you, too, can get the goods!

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By Ben Paynter

Published on June 02, 2005

One Thursday in late April, this spring's collection of material girls turned out in droves.

Toting reluctant boyfriends and sipping high-priced mojitos, the ladies packed the humid basement level of the Plaza hot spot Re:Verse for a Coach fashion show. The concrete bunker known as the Red Room held low glass tables, ottoman-style bench seats and a giant mirror mounted on an easel.

The gala, part of Re:Verse's "Epi-Curious Thursdays" -- a new series of bashes allowing the Plaza's potential customers and chic retailers to rub elbows -- had been outfitted with all of the necessary accessories. A suited bouncer armed with a printed guest list stood near a small velvet rope upstairs. As she entered, each female guest was given a Coach-emblazoned shopping bag filled with freebies, a company catalog and various handbills and business cards for Plaza and Overland Park boutiques and salons.

On hand was the usual roster of Kansas City's self-anointed club royalty -- an assortment of blondes in sequined blouses and brunettes in cleavage-revealing tops, a duo of retail mavens from BCBG, former Mizzou quarterback-cum-bar-boy Corby Jones, and former Royal Brian McRae, who was clad in aviator sunglasses and a black leather jacket.

A bearded DJ spun a mixture of hard rock and funk. Women fronting Coach accessories sashayed to a small, red-carpeted platform in the center of the room, pivoted, then strutted deep into the crowd. To Plaza denizens, most of the models were recognizable. They'd been recruited straight from the shopping and bar scene, bolstering the event's who-you-know aura.

First a Jackie O.-style brunette in a pink overcoat, bulbous sunglasses and a medium-size bag hit the runway. She was followed by a short-skirted "schoolgirl" flaunting her backpack and sucking a lollipop. A third woman carried a small handbag and wore two belts crisscrossed at her midsection like a modern gunslinger. Later, a lithe dark-haired woman, stripped to just a knotted white T-shirt and pair of Coach swimsuit bottoms, shook her booty for her peers.

The show approximated a game of little-girl dress up: Amid the thumping beats and numerous outfit changes, most of the merchandise was just reshuffled. There was a collection of oblong scarves in pink and green, khaki-print shoulder totes with hibiscus or turquoise leather bottoms, and this season's marquee "Scribble" design: a white bag with a rainbow-colored version of the pattern that has become a company trademark -- two opposing, horseshoe-shaped C's.

Purses hung like price tags from the arms of each model, each bag's size telegraphing its value. In general, medium-size bags retailed around $300. Larger, special-issue bags, such as the Scribble beach tote, cost more than $1,000.

High-end designers -- Louis Vuitton, Prada, Burberry, Gucci, Kate Spade -- price their goods similarly. The point of buying them: to show the world what you can afford.

Here in Kansas City, the fashion conscious have more to worry about than price. The couture supply is limited in Carhartt country. Coach might have a storefront on the Plaza, for example, but the closest Louis Vuitton dealer is in St. Louis.

While the status-bag set pines, more industrious women have figured out how to secure similar goods on the cheap.

The sales staff at chic bastions like Coach and Halls have been trained to spot the signs of a counterfeit purse -- a slipped stitch, a crooked emblem, a mismatched pattern, unmonogramed lining. They tell sob stories about women who have tried to shop outside legitimate channels only to discover they've been duped, women who have left Halls in a huff after finding out their eBay bag is fake, a girlfriend crying inside Coach after learning her boyfriend gave her imitation goods.

"Anyone who would buy a fake handbag wouldn't shop in our store anyway," says Marlo Thornton, a purse buyer at Halls.

But these purse players operate under a philosophy of sartorial existentialism: You think it's real; therefore, it is real.They thrill to hear those simple words: "I love your purse! Where did you get it!"

The answer to that question was a trade secret. Until now.

At sunset on a recent weekday,a more exclusive basement party was going on. The gathering was concealed inside a large home amid a dozen other three-car-garage houses clustered near a manufactured lake. The perfect suburban camouflage.

Since noon, women had arrived in waves, parking their sedans and SUVs at intervals along the nondescript cul-de-sac. First were the stay-at-home moms, then the working-class wives, then the single girls. At the front door, they were met by a fortyish blonde with machine-tanned skin, dyed hair and suspiciously perky breasts pressing against a tight blue sweater. We'll call her Debbie. She ushered the women inside.

Downstairs, six casually dressed twentysomethings congregated in what resembled a swap meet. The concrete floor was covered by area rugs, and three rows of black-cloth-covered tables were stacked with accessories -- wallets, sunglasses, watches, umbrellas, belts, jewelry, day planners. Purses were draped from partitions that had been set up around the sale area, and shelves were piled high with larger accessories such as luggage, dog carriers and diaper bags in black, hot pink and green. Around them, the merchandise was arranged according to size, shape and, most important, by "designer": Chanel, Burberry, Coach, Louis Vuitton, Marc Jacobs, Christian Dior. Advertisements clipped from women's magazines were mounted beside each display like exhibit tags.

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