Consumer Stress

No. 30: Have a shopping spree at Harrods

The going rate for ostrich eggs seems inexplicably high, especially considering I can’t recall ever having heard of someone actually buying one of the things. But I’m standing in Harrods and unless my eyes are deceiving me, for just £20 one of these babies could be mine.

I’m pretty sure this would be a waste of my precious money, I can’t imagine ever needing an omelette that big, so I pass through the tempting food stalls filled with truffle oils and vintage brandies to find safer ground.

Walking into this beautiful and luxurious mother of all department stores usually gives me consumer stress. Purse-happy buyers could get lost in the mega-store, where everything from leather passport holders to snail fossils can be found on four-and-a-half acres of fluorescent lighting. The place has been handing out their iconic green and gold shopping bags since 1834, and while that may be good and well for the likes of the purchasing elite, I’m afraid the whole thing just makes me want to take a big ole nap.

I explained my Harrods struggle to our features editor Lauren Krotsoky at the office one day. Lauren is very much a girl’s girl, the type of 25-year-old woman who carries a comb and a mirror in her purse, and she found my comparison of the luxury retailer to budget grocer Asda (a place that is trying to beat Japanese subways systems for the record of most people slammed shoulder to shoulder) a bit off.

I have a suspicion my aversion may be due to the untouchable quality of the items on display. A pair of £1 million Stuart Weitzman heels are certainly pretty, but don’t usually fit into my budget. The knowledge that I probably can’t afford most of the wares on offer has most likely contributed to keeping me away from the posh digs, but I’m determined to get my head around this beloved British treasure.

Breezing through the specialty foods section and into a makeup heaven that looks like a Mac pro shop exploded, Lauren and I are met with white marbled floors, cashmere covered shoppers and a scent that’s a mix between Dior’s Cherie parfum and £100 notes. I’m not sure where to head first when Lauren pulls me to a Benefit counter with stacks of eye shadows and lipstick in little cardboard boxes with pictures of artfully drawn pinup girls. Lauren is a sucker for both 50’s nostalgia and clever marketing, and we begin playing with the provided cotton swabs and samples.

“Can I help you pick a color?” asks a burly and tanned man from beside me. He’s wearing a nametag which suggests he works here, though he looks like he would be more comfortable at a Gold’s Gym helping overweight men feel the burn.

“Um, sure,” I say as I sit in a tall stool the Hulk pulls over. He’s rubbing goop into my face and removing the dark eyeliner I applied this morning.

“What colors do you usually like?” he asks me in a thick Bulgarian accent. I point to some browns and he starts pulling products off the shelf, holding out a pink bottle that looks like nail polish.
“We call this Supermodel in a Bottle. It will brighten you up and make your face look fantastic,” he tells me very seriously. Never one to turn down an opportunity to look like Gisele Bundchen, I allow Stanislav to plaster me with the stuff. I have one eye closed as something wet is put on my lid, and with the other I spy Lauren also being taken in by the makeover routine. By the time we’re finished Lauren and I find ourselves standing at the checkout line each holding a respectable pile of eyeliners, mascara and blush.

“Your face does look really pretty Erica,” Lauren tells me as we pay for our items. Perhaps it’s the chemical buzz from all the collagen in the room, but I quickly jot down my contact information on the counter’s sign-up list for future events.