Kids can be cruel, and for confirmation you need only ask a teenager found out for wearing fake brand clothes. One never forgets the ignominy. For me, it took place on the netball court when I strutted out in my new joggers.
“What are these?” asked Chantelle from maths, before pulling at the stitched logo by the pocket. “They say… Abibas.”
Abibas, truly the devil’s preferred sports brand. Who knew a counterfeiter switching a D for a B would shape me so profoundly? When I finally started earning my own money, I spent it all on getting the real items: a flaunting of independence, or perhaps an expression of shame, an attempt to replace memories of having little with having it all.
But a couple of years ago, I came across a scarf at a boot sale. It was covered in the double Cs of Chanel, but under the logo was a fine print spelling “Channel”. I thought it was funny. I wore it out. Women in expensive coats complimented me. Waiters in fancy restaurants heard me when I said, “Excuse me.”
Over time, collecting fakes has become a hobby. Some are so well-replicated they blur the lines between real and rip-off, while others are so audaciously off-brand (think Reebork, and Cucci) they demand a kind of respect. Wearing them is a prank I get to play on a shallow, materialistic world; a pleasing gotcha, just for me. I know that quality counts, and sometimes you have to spend to get it. But personally, I think the only difference between fake and authentic is marketing.
People wear clothes to communicate, to express what’s unique about them. I dread to think what it says about me that, of all the shoes in all the world, none feel quite as right as my scarlet-soled Louboobins.
