I bought the Dior J’Adior slingbacks because I am a sucker for a ribbon. There, I said it. It wasn’t about the ‘craftsmanship’ or the ‘timeless silhouette’ or any of that other nonsense you read in glossy magazines. It was 100% because I saw that little embroidered ‘J’Adior’ peeking out from under a pair of frayed jeans and my brain short-circuited. I walked into the boutique on 57th Street, didn’t even look at the price tag (a lie, I looked, I winced, I bought them anyway), and walked out with a white shopping bag that cost more than my first car’s transmission repair.
But here is the thing: these shoes are a total contradiction. They are beautiful. They are also, in many ways, a complete scam. I’ve owned my black technical fabric pair for exactly twenty-two months now, and I’ve worn them to four weddings, two high-stakes work dinners, and one disastrous funeral where I tripped over a literal grave. I’ve tracked the wear and tear like a weirdo. I even measured the strap stretch with a ruler last night. After 14 wears, the elastic in the slingback has moved exactly 3mm. That might not sound like much, but on a shoe that relies entirely on tension to stay on your foot, 3mm is the difference between walking like a person and shuffling like a penguin with a hip injury.
The 42-minute pain threshold
Let’s talk about the data, because nobody ever gives you the actual numbers. I’ve field-tested these in various environments. Here is what I found:
- The Blister Window: 42 minutes. That is how long I can walk on city pavement before the back of my heel starts to feel like it’s being kissed by a soldering iron.
- The Cobblestone Rating: 0/10. If you wear these in the West Village or any European city with ‘character’ underfoot, you will die. Or at least your dignity will.
- The Compliment Ratio: 3 per hour. People love these shoes. Total strangers will stop you. It’s a drug.
I used to think that ‘technical fabric’ was just a fancy way of saying Dior found a way to charge a thousand dollars for polyester. I was completely wrong. It’s actually worse—it’s a magnet for every piece of lint and dust in a three-mile radius. If you walk past a construction site, your shoes will look like they’ve been through a war zone by the time you reach the next block. I find myself cleaning them with a dedicated toothbrush more often than I clean my own bathroom. It’s a trap.
The part where I admit I was wrong
I have a confession. I used to tell everyone that logos were tacky. I was that person who only bought ‘quiet luxury’ before that term became a TikTok trend. I thought the J’Adior ribbon was the height of ‘new money’ desperation. But then I put them on. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. The logo isn’t the point. The point is how the ribbon cuts across the foot. It creates this optical illusion that makes your legs look four inches longer than they actually are. It’s a structural masterpiece disguised as a billboard.
I might be wrong about this, but I genuinely believe Dior is intentionally making the soles thinner every year just to force us into the repair shop sooner.
I know people will disagree with me, and the purists will say the leather sole is a sign of quality, but I think it’s a design flaw. I spent another $60 getting a rubber Topy sole put on them immediately because the original leather is about as durable as a wet cracker. If you don’t do this, you’re basically throwing money into a woodchipper. Anyway, the espresso I had while waiting for the cobbler was the highlight of my Tuesday, but that’s a different story. I digress.
The subway grate incident of 2022
This is my personal failure story. It was June. It was humid. I was feeling myself in a silk midi skirt and my Dior slingbacks, heading to a gallery opening in Chelsea. I was trying to look like the kind of woman who has a favorite architect and doesn’t eat carbs. As I stepped over a subway grate on 23rd Street, the 6.5cm comma heel—which is shaped like a literal hook, mind you—slid perfectly into the metal slot.
I didn’t just stumble. I was anchored to the Earth. I had to unbuckle my foot (well, slide it out of the elastic) and stand there in one black sock on the filthy New York City pavement while I yanked the shoe out. The ‘technical fabric’ got a snag that looks like a cat scratched it. I cried. Not because of the shoe, really, but because I realized I had become the person I used to make fun of: someone whose entire evening was ruined by a piece of footwear. I felt shallow and ridiculous. I still wore them to the gallery, though. I just stood in the corner so no one could see the snag. It’s a scar now. A $950 scar.
Don’t buy the flats
This is my most controversial take and I know the ‘comfort first’ crowd will come for me, but I don’t care. I actively tell my friends to avoid the Dior J’Adior flats. They are an abomination. Without the 6.5cm lift, the pointed toe makes your feet look like two oversized kayaks. There is something about the proportions that just fails when the heel is removed. It’s like a song played at the wrong speed.
I have this irrational hatred for Rothy’s—they look like surgical bandages for feet—and the Dior flats give me that same ‘I’ve given up’ energy, but at ten times the price. If you’re going to suffer for fashion, actually suffer. Don’t half-ass it with a flat. The 6.5cm heel is the only version that matters. The 10cm version is for people who have chauffeurs and no nerve endings in their toes. Total lie.
Is it actually worth it?
I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve looked at the dupes—the ones from Zara that look okay from ten feet away but smell like a chemical factory when you get close. I’ve looked at the iterations from other brands. Nothing quite hits the same way. The Dior slingback is a very specific kind of armor. It’s the shoe you wear when you want to feel like you have your life together, even if your bank account is screaming and you’re one subway grate away from a mental breakdown.
The quality is… fine. It’s not Hermes level. It’s not even old-school Chanel level. The fabric pales, the elastic stretches, and the heel is a liability. But I’d buy them again. In fact, I’ve been staring at the nude patent leather version for three weeks. I don’t need them. I shouldn’t want them. They will probably hurt just as much as the black ones.
I guess I’m just wondering if we ever actually buy things for how they function, or if we’re all just chasing the way we felt the first time we saw that ribbon in a mirror. I still don’t know the answer. I probably never will.
Buy the shoes, but get the rubber soles immediately. That’s the only advice that matters.