In June 2021, I wore a pair of Dior B23 high-top sneakers to a wedding in the Cotswolds. By the time the couple was cutting the cake, my heels were literally bleeding into the white canvas. I’d paid $1,100 to have my feet treated like they were in a cheese grater. It was humiliating, painful, and objectively a bad purchase. Yet, three years later, I still find myself walking into the boutique on 57th Street whenever I need a hit of retail therapy. I work in logistics—I spend my days looking at shipping manifests and supply chain bottlenecks—so I should be more rational about ‘quality’ and ‘value.’ But I’m not. Luxury isn’t about logic; it’s about how a specific shade of grey makes you feel less like a corporate drone.
The stuff I actually finish
Most people start with the bags, but the only Dior item I have bought eight times is the Addict Lip Glow. It is $40 for what is essentially a glorified Chapstick. I know people will disagree, but I think the ‘universal’ pink shade is a lie. It looks different on everyone because it reacts to your pH, or whatever marketing jargon they’re using this week. I don’t care. I’ve tried the dupes from Sephora and the $5 versions from CVS. They don’t feel the same. The Dior one has this specific weight in the hand—it’s heavy, it clicks shut with a satisfying thud, and it’s the only thing that keeps my lips from peeling when the office AC is cranked to ‘Arctic’ in mid-August. I’ve tested it against 12 other brands over three winters. Nothing else holds up for more than two hours without a re-apply. This does. Worth every penny.
Buying luxury is often just paying a premium to feel slightly more put-together than you actually are.
The Saddle Bag is a structural disaster
I’m going to be blunt: the Saddle Bag is ugly. It looks like a kidney. It’s shaped in a way that makes it impossible to fit a standard Kindle or even a large wallet comfortably. If you try to put too much in it, the Velcro—yes, it’s often Velcro on the older ones, or a magnetic clasp that’s a pain—refuses to stay shut. I bought mine in the blue Oblique pattern back in 2019. I hate the strap. It’s too short to be a crossbody but too awkward to be a shoulder bag. It just kind of hangs there, mocking my life choices.
And yet, I wear it constantly. Why? Because it’s iconic. It’s the fashion equivalent of a bad boyfriend—high maintenance, visually confusing, but makes you look great in photos. I might be wrong about this, but I think the trend has peaked and we’re all going to look back at these in five years and wonder what we were thinking. But for now, it’s my go-to when I want to pretend I’m a person who goes to brunch instead of a person who spends Saturdays doing laundry and catching up on emails. Total lie.
Speaking of laundry, I actually had a brief moment of insanity where I thought about buying the Dior laundry detergent. I saw it in a warehouse once during a site visit (I work in ‘general’ operations, so I see weird stuff in transit) and the scent was incredible. But $50 to wash my socks? Anyway, I digress. I stuck to the candles instead.
The sneakers that (eventually) stopped hurting
Back to the shoes. After the Cotswolds bloodbath, I should have sworn off Dior footwear forever. I didn’t. Instead, I bought the B27 low-tops. I’ve tracked the wear on these over 14 months of daily use. I actually measured the tread depth because I’m a nerd like that; it went from 4mm to about 1.2mm in the heel area after roughly 600 miles of city walking. That’s actually not bad for a ‘fashion’ sneaker. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. They aren’t as comfortable as New Balances, but they’re more comfortable than any other designer shoe I’ve owned.
I have a very specific take on the B23s though: I think they’re for people who want to be noticed, whereas the B27s are for people who want to look like they aren’t trying. I’ve had the B27s for two years now. They’ve survived rain, spilled lattes, and one very messy night in a dive bar in Brooklyn. They still look expensive. That’s the trick. They don’t age into ‘trashy’ territory; they just look ‘worn-in luxury.’
The part I’m genuinely embarrassed about
I refuse to buy the Book Tote. I actively tell my friends to avoid it. It is a glorified grocery bag for people with too much money. It has no zipper. No pockets. It’s a canvas box that costs $3,000. I once saw a woman at JFK trying to find her passport in one; she had to dump the entire contents—makeup bag, laptop, snacks, a smaller Dior bag—onto the floor just to find a piece of paper. It was a mess. I genuinely judge people who wear the ‘J’adior’ ribbon slingbacks, too. They look like they’re trying too hard to be a ‘French Girl’ when they’re actually from Ohio or, in my case, a suburb that smells like wet mulch. It’s a tacky look. There, I said it.
I know that sounds harsh. I’m biased because I value utility, and those items have zero utility. My loyalty to the brand stops where the practicality ends. I’ve spent $120 on the same Dior Homme Intense fragrance four times. I don’t care if something better exists. I like that it smells like iris and expensive lipstick. It lasts 6 hours on my skin and about 48 hours on a wool coat. That’s the data point that matters to me.
I used to think that luxury was about the craftsmanship. I was completely wrong. Most of this stuff is mass-produced in factories that look just like the ones I visit for work. You aren’t paying for a 90-year-old man in an atelier to hand-stitch your wallet. You’re paying for the heritage, the branding, and the fact that when you put it on, you feel like a slightly more successful version of yourself. Is that a scam? Maybe. But it’s a scam I’m currently participating in. I wonder if I’ll still care about any of this when I’m 60, or if I’ll just be wearing orthopedic shoes and not giving a damn about the ‘CD’ logo on my belt.
Get the Lip Glow. Skip the Book Tote. Never again with the B23s.