I lied to Hermés (whoops)

A story about how I stuck it to the man and got exactly what I wanted.

This story I’m about to share with you is ridiculous. Everything about it.

And let me warn you, it is not one of my best moments. I had a shred of guilt for a very short period of time. On the other hand, I was incredibly proud of myself and thought it was too funny and too stupid to not share.

This here story is about the absurdity of luxury brands, how completely dense that world is, and what it is like to perform the ultimate humiliation ritual of reasonably asking for what you want. I know this is nothing new, nothing surprising—but I’m here to share an anecdote that is so damn dumb, it makes me never want to buy anything again (and I’m not even the one who bought anything in the first place. Just stick around, it’ll make sense soon). By the end of this, you might call me a hero—or a Karen.

Last month, my boyfriend, Andrew, and his sister were thinking about Christmas gift ideas for their darling mother. Once you grow up and move away, especially to a city like New York, buying a Christmas gift is a delicate practice that you must pay special attention to. There is an invisible, definitely self-imposed rule that whatever you get your loved ones must be super cool.

So when we start searching for Christmas gifts, we try to get something very New York, or scream “we bought this at Bloomingdales!” by utilizing their free gift wrapping services, or spend a little extra on the people who we love on Madison Avenue because why not? And when something has been purchased in New York City, let alone on Madison Avenue, suddenly it has higher value. And I’m not hating on that per se, simply an observation.

When you spend any amount of money, especially around the holidays, you want to make everything perfect. The gift wrapping to the actual gift—they are, sometimes, equally as important. And when you are buying something special, you want to make sure it is just that—special. Right? This is important to the story.

They were weighing options on what to get their mother when they recalled her wearing a lovely silky scarf to the Keeneland horse track in Lexington, Kentucky. They instantly knew that they’d go halfzies on the most special, most iconic, 100% real silk scarf one can own: the Hermés twilly scarf. And yes. These silk scarves are expensive. Their mother deserves that and so, so much more. But the twilly scarf is, believe it or not, one of Hermés’ cheapest items.

Andrew and his sister started scrolling online to see which print she’d like best. Which one would make her feel like a million dollars? Which one says you birthed us, so here’s a fancy scarf? Once they found a few they liked, it was silently agreed upon that we’d go into the actual store to see the scarves, feel the scarves, and purchase the scarf when they officially decided on which one she’d like the best.

On one lukewarm Saturday in November, Andrew and I made our way from our cozy 333 sq ft. room that somehow is legally classified as an “apartment” and trekked to the cleanest, richest areas of Manhattan to be spoken to like we were lower class citizens at Hermés. We couldn’t wait.

After being spoken to by perhaps one of the nicest store associates who was from Cincinnati (that’s why she was so daggon nice), Andrew decided on which scarf they’d be purchasing—but he decided to just get it shipped to our apartment to make sure there wouldn’t be any hand grease on it from other people feeling and touching it.

A few days went by and we received a package. The package, from the outside, is indiscernible from our Amazon vitamin delivery. There wasn’t any grand iconic Hermés orange or anything. I think all the packaging said a french phrase “La Maison du Cheval” which translates to “the house of horse”. Clever, I thought.

Andrew, all excited like, opens the package and pulls out the scarf. Instantly, he and I double-over and burst out in a dry-heave laugh. He pulls out this tiny, circular orange box that I imagine Hermès put chocolates in—but no more than 4 pieces. It was so small. He opens the tiny fancy chocolate-looking box, and pulls out the beautiful scarf from this microscopic box like a kid holding a slimy fish they caught. It was gorgeous and the perfect, nice gift for their mother.

But the box? This box was a joke. I mean, look at this picture. This is a picture of our Walmart 5 ft tree. And see that little thing under it? You might have to scroll in. Yep! That’s it. That’s quite a special gift.

I told Andrew that I’d run to the store and insist they give me a tie box. I figured this would be no issue.

I trot into Hermès and explain the situation, suppressing my Kentucky twang so hard I feel like I might combust.

ME: Hi there! My husband (I say husband when I am actually trying to get what I want—usually a foolproof method for getting what you want) and I came in here the other day and purchased an Hermés twilly scarf for my husband’s mother. Is there any way I can get a bigger box, like a tie box or something? It’s just a little small and it’s her main gift. Oh! And I also have the receipt, if that is helpful in any way.

ASSOCIATE #1: Oh um, well, we usually don’t do that. Was your box damaged or anything?

ME: No it wasn’t, it’s just really small. It’s her main gift, so we wanted it to feel more “grand” than the little box that it is.

ASSOCIATE #1; Ah, okay. Let me go ask.

ME: [Thinking] Oh my gosh woman there are 1,000 orange boxes right behind you, just grab me one and give it to me? I’m not trying to sell it on Poshmark or anything.

ASSOCIATE #1 is now bringing along her friend, ASSOCIATE #2.

ASSOCIATE #2: I’m sorry—what is the problem?

ME: [Thinking] Oh no, attitude. [Speaking] Well, essentially my husband got this for his mother as a gift and the box is just kind of pathetic for what we spent on it and we just want to get a bigger box so it feels more special. That’s all!

ASSOCIATE #2: [Laughs] They’re not pathetic.

ME: I mean for something to be hundreds of dollars and it to come in a box that small? I mean, it is a little pathetic, don’t you think? The box is tiny!

ASSOCIATE #2: Sorry, we just don’t do that.

ME: I will literally pay $10 for a new box?

ASSOCIATE #2: Sorry.

Alright, I thought. This is crazy. I know it’s just a box, but that’s the very issue—it’s just a box. So give it to me? Why are you robots being so precious with your boxes? Luckily, there are nearly 30 floors at this store so I figured I’d count my losses on the first floor and make my way upstairs, sneakily. Here’s where it gets good. I recite my initial pitch.

ASSOCIATE #3: Let me go get the gift wrapping manager to double-check.

ME: [Thinking] A gift wrapping manager? Oh my gosh this is bananas. But at least she’s being nice so that’s something, potentially.

ASSOCIATE #3: Our gift wrapping manager says that is not something we do here, I’m so sorry.

I’m so fed up. But I’m determined (and unemployed—so I have the time).

ME: Is there any way I can talk to them? This gift is for my husband’s mother’s 70th birthday (weird lie?) and we want it to be really special for her.

ASSOCIATE #3 now feels terrible and goes and gets le manager. At this point, I’m just hoping the people from downstairs don’t somehow see me upstairs.

MANAGER: Hi there. How can I help you?

I cannot believe I’m about to tell this story again for a f’n box.

MANAGER: Well, ma’am, we don’t really do that here.

ME: But we literally bought something from you all? I understand it is just a box—but this is her main gift and this looks like it holds my laundry quarters? Especially for someone’s 70th birthday?

An important aside to mention: Andrew’s mother is not 70, not even close. I don’t know where this lie came from. But there it was.

MANAGER: Okay, just this once.

Finally, he hands me a tie box.

Top circular box: Original box | Bottom box: What I got after begging

I am overtly gracious to them, then I was immediately escorted out of the store by two NYPD men. I’m kidding about that part, but I got out of there so fast they probably thought they dreamt up the whole encounter once they turned around to see me gone.

As I pranced out of that store happier and feeling more accomplished than someone actually walking out of there with a newly purchased Birkin bag, I couldn’t believe the situation nor my response to the situation. I couldn’t believe, for a solid 15 minutes, I was arguing with Hermés employees about a vapid box. I couldn’t believe it was an argument. I couldn’t believe I was so persistent about a box. But that’s not the point.

For a company that is worth $263.48 billion USD, they sure acted like they were in the back making those boxes themselves out of pumpkin shavings and cardstock or that upper management told them that they’d get a $5 million bonus at the end of the year if they withheld boxes to customers who wanted a replacement.

To me, I wasn’t the one who made a fool of myself that day—they did. They had a person come into their store, spend their hard earned money on a really special gift for one of the most important people in their life, and was told they couldn’t have a different box? And better yet, they’ll quarrel with you over the stupid ass orange cardboard. They value themselves as a brand so (too) much that they stood firmly against one of their own paying customers to what—prove a point? But what about the customer is always right ideology? I’m being funny, but also?

I instantly called my mom to tell her how ridiculous the story was and how I white-lied to get what I wanted. She and I discussed how much we hate these luxury brands and what they do to us. We accept and desire these brands because of their perceived value—high expense, scarcity, celebrity attachment, whatever. But in reality, it’s just complete and utter nonsense created in order to keep up with the Joneses and stay broke.

I think so many of us are so exhausted with people and companies thinking that they can do no wrong and how dare we question their antics. I’m not going to fold to these folks anymore. If something doesn’t make sense, I’m standing my ground—no matter what it is. Or they’ll just continue this cycle of stupidity.

Wanna know the worst part of this whole situation? The manager forgot to give me the brown ribbon that goes around the box. But I kept that part to myself (didn’t want to be too greedy!)

Thank you for reading,
Jade