Price Per Wear: The Boots Julie Made Me Buy

It was frivolous, really, to think that anyone should need a pair of $850 boots, let alone a stay at home mother with only one child.

I’m on Beverly Blvd, with my friend Julie. We’ve escaped her small flat, leaving behind her partner, my 18-month old child and my husband, to explore the shops of West Hollywood.

Julie is everything I am not. She is older than me by 15 years, wears Prada boots and trousers on a plane for comfort wear and is a makeup artist who is invited regularly to the homes of Hollywood elite. She regales us with stories of movie stars taking coke in between scenes and others who fart uncontrollably (they do fart, they do) despite their jaw-dropping beauty.

Julie is loud and brash and has just put $40,000 on her credit card to pay for a ‘kitchen renovation and other things’. We’ve just driven to various warehouses to pick up fake blood and other necessities so that she can form a detached hand on an actor who plays the victim of a serial killer.

And now, we shop.

She spots the boots first - an ankle boot in black leather, soft and velvety to the touch, with an elegant block heel and a square toe. Around the top there is a strap with a delicate buckle that gives the boot a shape that is sexy, sleek. Grown up. The label is Patrick Cox, a ubiquitous 1990s shoe designer, the epitome of cool.

“Get these!” She tells me, “they’re only $550!”. I gulp at their beauty but my breath catches on the price. Originally $850.

“You’re SAVING $300 by buying these,” Julie exclaims, delighted at our find.

She is emphatic that I must have them. The ploy of saving money is the dangling carrot.

It is, Julie argues, all about price per wear. She goes on to explain the value has nothing to do with the price of an item, but fully rests on its timelessness, longevity and beauty.

She’s right. I buy the boots and instantly feel sick to my stomach.

When am I ever going to wear boots like these? To the playgroup on a Wednesday morning, when I have a rare moment of connection with other tired mothers, worrying that their kid isn’t eating enough green vegetables? Those mornings when insecurity and doubt creep in as you realise that you’ve forgotten to sign your child up for the ‘best’ primary school because who the hell does that when your kid is only two years old? (A waitlist you say? For a school?!)

On the flight home to the UK from Los Angeles, I wear the boots with my stretchy yoga pants. I feel oddly empowered to be wearing three weeks’ worth of groceries on my feet. I glance down, stretching my feet out so I can admire their sleekness and the idea enters my head - now, I am an adult.

Twenty-two years later, I still have the boots. They’ve been resoled once or twice but they retain their shape, their softness and their style.

A shoemaker, through no fault of his own, had become so poor that he had only leather enough for a single pair of shoes. He cut them out one evening, then went to bed, intending to finish them the next morning. Having a clear conscience, he went to bed peacefully, commended himself to God, and fell asleep. The next morning, after saying his prayers, he was about to return to his work when he found the shoes on his workbench, completely finished. They were so well made that not a single stitch was out of place, just as if they were intended as a masterpiece.

— The Elves & The Shoemaker, The Brothers Grimm

One day, not long after our West Hollywood shopping spree, Julie woke up at 5am with a terrible headache and promptly died of a brain aneurysm.

She had just turned 50.

Every time I wear the boots, I hear her voice.

Price per wear, Michelle. Price. Per. Wear.

Do you own something that carries a person inside it? Let me know in the comments

Leave a comment