by Babe Walker
PRICING
Infant (size 0m–24m) $695.00
Toddler (size 3T–5T) $1295.00
Kids (size XXS–L) $1775.00
TARGETED VENDORS
Barneys New York, Fred Segal, Madison LA, Creatures of Comfort, Opening Ceremony, Maxfield, Colette Paris, Shopbop.com, Net-A-Porter.com, “Babe for Babies” Pop Up Shops.
MARKETING STRATEGY
Thanks to a pristine production process, mixed with an array of ultra-luxe materials, these dashikis will practically sell themselves. There should also be ads in Vogue/Harper’s Bazaar/Elle/British Vogue/French Vogue/Vogue Nippon/Vogue Italia/any other major fashion publications.
I had to create a mood board to set the tone for my collection. I started with images of my favorite celebrity mothers and their adopted offspring. Angelina Jolie and Zahara Jolie-Pitt, Madonna and David Banda/Mercy James, Sandra Bullock and Louis Bardo, Woody Allen and Soon Yi. I added luxurious swatches and textiles, sequins, patterns, ikat, rainbow, photos of Alek Wek, most of the spring/summer 2011 Lanvin collection, and for good measure one shot of Natalia Vodianova making the same face that the Afghani girl from that famous National Geographic issue did. You really need to be all-inclusive when mood boarding.
I sketched out an entire collection, thirty-four looks, inspired by the creation of the Earth and the natural elements. The collection began with basic muslin dashikis in black, then muslin dashikis in white, then an explosion of space-print dashikis in rich satins, and then an earthy, woodsy vibe with bark-colored cashmere dashikis and green kufi hats. Then I transitioned into a sky, air, and water vibe ranging from the lightest blue silk dashikis to deep oceanic silk-organza blend dashikis. The final seven looks were inspired by the hot Kalahari sunsets. I’m talking sheer linen dashikis in blazing oranges, corals, and fuchsias. The collection was beautiful. It was inspired. It was everything. It was my baby.
I needed a backer to help me produce my vision, so I scheduled meetings with some well-connected family friends. Namely, Diane Von Furstenberg, Marc Jacobs, and Rachel Zoe. I perfected my pitch:
Smash cut to you as a baby in Africa. You’re naked, you’re starving, where are your parents? Who knows. You’re alone in the world. What would really come in handy? Food, water, shelter, and a gorgeous dashiki.
Now smash cut to you as a baby in the United States. What do you want more than anything? You want to be hip. And nothing’s more hip than being fashionable and charitable. Enter Babe for Babies. Our dashikis are luxurious, they’re handmade, they’re day-to-night, they’re expensive, they’re sustainable. Fifty percent of the proceeds of your dashiki have gone to providing our friends in the motherland with an equally expensive and gorgeous dashiki. Think about how confident you’ll feel, slipping the luxurious fabric over your little body, knowing that you are providing a baby in a faraway land with all the resources they need to live their lives and look fabulous doing it.
Babe for Babies is not just a clothing line, it’s a lifestyle. It’s a worldview. It’s a solution.
Surprisingly, they all turned me down. This just goes to show you that even visionaries can be shortsighted sometimes. They were basically telling me that they didn’t want the world to be a better place. It’s fine, people did the same thing to Gandhi, Moses, and Joan of Arc. I decided to approach my father and offer him the opportunity to be an investor in my line.
“Dad. Here’s the deal. Clothing. Luxurious, beautiful, African clothing. For children. By me.”
“Babe. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Daaaaaaaaaaad. Can I have ninety-seven thousand dollars?”
“What?!”
“That’s what it’s going to cost to produce this line. Who’s going to bat for African orphans in the scope of children’s fashion?! Sure, girls like Suri Cruise can carry their expensive, mini designer handbags, but when are they going to represent for their fellow earthlings living in squalor? Help me help everyone. I can do it for eighty-seven thousand if I cut the beaded clutches.”
“If you think I’m going to invest in a fashion start-up, you’re out of your bloody mind. I’d never see a return on my investment. And eighty-seven thousand dollars? For baby clothes? My God!”
The fact that my dad foolishly passed on the opportunity didn’t stop me. I knew if I was going to see my vision come to fruition, I would have to take matters into my own hands. This unfortunately meant I would have to take the money out of my own trust. Annoying but necessary. I went into full-scale production mode, hiring a design assistant and six interns. I repurposed the guesthouse to be my live/work space. This is an absolute must for young designers on a budget. It was my little factory of dreams.
These dashikis were not the easiest thing to manufacture. I mean, I thought they would be because they’re small and I expected that I (my interns) could throw at least ten together per day. Nope. The Italian silks that I had flown in were so fucking delicate that we ended up ruining half of the supply within the first week of production. After three weeks of literally doing nothing but work on my line, my team and I had managed to complete two full dashikis, and were $11,000 over budget. The interns looked dead—they all had really greasy hair and dark circles. I was fatigued. I was only getting seven hours of sleep a night and had a paper cut on my left ring finger. Nothing is easy in the world of fashion.
Although we were thirty-two looks short of a full line, I started putting feelers out via e-mail to buyers I had relationships with, just to get a sense of how many dashikis we would need to produce once orders were placed.
Dear _______,
You look great! Now it’s time to make a difference. Attached is my business plan and order form. Feel free to e-mail me with any questions you may have.
Best,
Babe Walker
CEO, President, Head Designer
Babe for Babies
[email protected]
A few weeks went by, and no one had responded. I didn’t get it. I decided to call up my friend Xander, an assistant buyer at Barneys, to see if he’d gotten my e-mail.
“Hey Xanta Claus, it’s Babe Walker.”
“Babe—my God, you are such a crazy bitch. That e-mail you sent last week had us all in stitches. Where do you come up with this stuff? Hilarious! Those sketches? Too much. Loved it.”
“Amazing! When can I expect your order? I’m doing a fabric buy later today, so if you can give me an estimate of how many pieces you’re going to take, that would be super-helpful.”
“AHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! You should come by the store soon. All the new Proenza stuff is in. Love you. Mean it.”
He hung up. Confused, I called Linda, another buyer friend, at Fred Segal.
“Hey, Lindyyyyyy,” I said.
“Hi, Babe. Got your e-mail last week. Kind of offensive. I spent six months in Ethiopia after high school, building schools and educating families on sustainable farming.”
“So you totally get it. I never got your order form though. Want to just tell me what you need over the phone?”
“I won’t be ordering anything. Personally, I found the whole idea to be pretty tasteless. So fuck you.”
“Okay. Um, wow . . . what are you trying to say?”
“But you should totally come by the store and check out the new Proenza stuff. It’s insane. Tons of neon.” And then she hung up.
After reaching out to some more buyers, it was apparent that nobody wanted anything to do with my passion project. No one was on board with Babe for Babies.
What the fuck?! Where had I gone wrong? My idea was completely organic. It had come from a good place—a place of love and wanting to help the less fortunate. One hundred and eight thousand dollars and all that hard work down the drain, and all I had to show for it were these two stupid dashikis and no one cared. I didn’t know what to make of it. I thought I was following my dreams and honoring my Tai Tai’s wishes. How could she have led me so astray? I had unresolved anger at all the buyers for not placing any orders,
but they were spot-on about the new Proenza collection. It was major. I bought most of it. So, lesson learned, I guess.
Every job I’ve ever had is the worst job I’ve ever had.
So, as it turns out, everyone really does have a job. Even people who seem like they don’t have jobs, like the President and Ryan Seacrest, do. Sometimes you can’t tell that someone is actually at work, but they totally are. Like lifeguards and taxi drivers. I was starting to notice that the pool of my friends that could meet me for lunch at 3:00 P.M. on a weekday was drying up. There were days when I literally called everyone I knew within a five-mile radius to see if they wanted to get lunch with me, only to be met with defeat. It was becoming a real issue. I even offered to take Mabinty to lunch one day and she straight-up refused.
“Dis laundry’s nah gwaan fold itself, gyal. Plus, mi sick of eating salads wid yuh white ass.”
“Mabinty. Chill with the laundry talk. Can’t you just roll yourself a blunt, work up an appetite, and then I’ll drive us to La Scala? What is the f-ing problem?”
“Either mi steam dis dress for yuh, or we go to lunch together. Yuh decide.”
“Fine, steam the dress. Just know that I’m really annoyed.”
As I walked away, I stopped and turned back to her. “Should I get a job? Why do people really have jobs? Does no one value free time? I wonder if I’d like working. Wouldn’t that be so weird if that’s the turn my life took right now? I’m not even hungry anymore.”
I knew if anyone could help me figure out what I should do, it would be my shaman, Steve. Since I’d never had a job, I didn’t have a clue as to what profession would best suit my talents, and I trusted Steve to pull it out of me like only a shaman can. He shook his rattle over me and asked, “How does your father spend his days?” I explained that my dad was the entertainment attorney to the stars, and Steve replied, “Your soul rests in your father’s footsteps, my friend.”
OMGivenchy, I’m a lawyer.
After an intense no-contact massage, I walked myself out of Steve’s shaman den with all the certainty in the world. I had found my calling. When I asked my dad if I could join his firm, he was thrilled and told me to arrive at his offices at 8 A.M. Monday morning. Cheryl, his secretary, would set me up for my new, entry-level position, which I’m pretty sure is how all new partners enter a law firm. I went straight to Barneys to find the perfect work bag and an ensemble that proclaimed: Power.
Monday
I arrived at my dad’s offices in Century City at 8:45. Turns out, rush hour traffic is a real thing. I thought it was just an urban legend. Then, of course, there was no valet, so it took me ten minutes to find parking. Unscathed by the morning’s obstacles, I strutted into the office with my latte in hand, ready to take on the day. I was wearing a printed Balenciaga shift dress, an oversized Yohji Yamamoto blazer, six-inch purple suede Yves St. Laurent pumps, and a massive work Birkin. Today, I was all about the power of positivity, so I approached Cheryl’s desk with a warm smile.
A little background: Cheryl has been my dad’s secretary since I was a baby Babe. Whenever my dad brought me to the office, she was in charge of keeping me happy, be it taking me shopping at Barneys when I was four or ordering my ahi tuna salads when I was seven. Basically, she hates me.
“Hi, Cheryl, how are you? Long time no see! Cute boots.”
I was lying. Cheryl’s boots were an epic disaster, a tsunami of the 2012 variety. Think patent leather, with a kitten heel, and not a Prada kitten heel, but a kill-yourself kitten heel. Her personal style has always screamed Shania Twain summering on the Jersey Shore circa 1998, and I just don’t get it. After all these years working around chic individuals, you’d think that Cheryl would have figured out how to present herself in a way that says, “I may be kind of fat and rude, but at least you’ll think I’m cute from twenty feet away.”
“You’re late,” she said, flatly.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
Another lie. I am a lawyer!
“Traffic was awful this morning, as I’m sure you noticed.”
“I’ve been here since seven-thirty.”
“Oh. Hate that for you.” I cringed thinking of Cheryl in her sensible Toyota. “Why so early?”
“Because you were supposed to be here at eight o’clock.”
“Oh yeah. Which way to my office?”
“Excuse me? Your office is right over there.”
Cheryl pointed to a boxlike structure that couldn’t have been bigger than three- by four-feet.
“That’s funny. I’m not really good with confined spaces. Where is my real office? My interior designer and my feng shui master will be here any minute, so I should get a feel for the space before they arrive. I’d also love to check out the blueprints for the building. Will there be a zoning issue for a small koi pond?”
Cheryl smiled. I noticed that she could really benefit from laser whitening, and she should focus on opening her eyes more when she smiles, to make them look less beady. Also I couldn’t really put my finger on what her hair color was trying to say to the world, but it wasn’t happy.
“This is your desk.”
“But my dad told me I’d be an entry-level, so . . .”
“Welcome to entry-level. There’s a partner meeting at nine-thirty. You’re in charge of picking up the coffee every morning. You can use the company card for that. You’ll also need to answer the phone and forward the calls to the appropriate extensions. You’re on mail duty every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. When you get back from coffee, check in with me. I have a stack of license agreements for you to copy, collate, and file for the paralegals.”
I pointed to my latte. “Oh, I already got my coffee, so I’m all good, thanks. Also, I love that you just told me all that fun stuff, and you sounded really confident during your monologue, but do you want to just go ahead and shoot me a quick e-mail with all that info? Also, when you e-mail me, make sure to flag it as ‘urgent,’ otherwise I won’t even see it. You’ll get the hang of my nuances once we’ve been working together for a while. It’s so exciting having my own assistant!”
“No. Babe, you need to take the elevator to the ground floor, walk two blocks east to the Starbucks at the corner, and pick up the coffees for the partners. First you’ll need to take everyone’s order.”
Cheryl was clearly testing me. I understood, and I too could play this game.
I proceeded to make my rounds through the office and typed all the coffee orders into my BlackBerry, which took forever. Then I walked over to Starbucks. By the time I got there, my feet were killing me. I was cursing myself for forgetting to have Mabinty take my YSL pumps for a test run to break them in. We have the same shoe size (a must for a maid/best friend). It was 9:20 when I placed the order for eight coffees and was 9:31 by the time they were all ready. My BlackBerry started ringing. It was Cheryl.
“Where are you? The partner meeting is starting.”
“Um, how in God’s name do you expect me to carry all these coffees back to the office?
“Figure it out. Get here now please.”
She hung up. What the fuck?! Now it was 9:43. Ugh. After staring at the coffees for another five minutes, a barista offered me a couple of heinous beverage totes and sent me on my way. I limped into the office at 9:55. Cheryl was standing at her desk waiting for me. I approached her, glaring.
“Why did you hang up on me? You’re fired for that, but now I’m rehiring you because I’m all about second chances. That was your first lesson in forgiveness. So embarrassing that I’m late for my first partner meeting! Where is my seat? Do you want to take these coffees in?”
Cheryl’s face did its best impression of a confused gremlin.
“Babe, let me clear a few things up. You are not a lawyer. You don’t have an office. You are an entry-level office assistant. Assistants sit in cubicles, and assistants do everything I tell them to do. And right now you are wasting everyone’s time. Get in there, now, and put the fucking coffees on the table!”
“Rude. Okay, fine. But you’re still on thin ice.”
So far being a lawyer was really stressful.
I finished handing out the coffees at 10 A.M. I was exhausted. Normally I wake up around ten, so it was extremely frustrating to have my sleep schedule thrown off just so I could get to this stupid office and deliver a bunch of wrinkly lawyers their coffees. Did anyone even care to ask me how I was doing? I mean, I was sweating, for God’s sake! I knew lawyers had to be rude to do their jobs, but I didn’t think that meant they had to abuse the entry-level lawyers. I headed to my desk to take a breather and check my e-mails. I sat down and took three cleansing breaths. A fresh start.
I had canceled my appointment with the interior designer and the feng shui master, and was about to reply to a message from my astrologer, Jackie, regarding the Ophiuchus sign and how it would affect my menstrual cycle, when the phone in my cubicle starting ringing in the most jarring way. I turned and stared at it, hoping it would stop, which it did not. I got up and walked over to Cheryl’s desk.
“Hey, Cher-Cher, the phone in my office will not stop ringing, and the ringer isn’t really giving me the best vibes, to put it lightly, so is there any way you could order me a new phone? Oh, and definitely order one for Dad too. Oh, and for sure order one for yourself. I think Bang & Olufsen should have something great.” Being a lawyer is all about delegating responsibility; clearly my strong suit.
“Are you kidding?”
“Are you kidding? It’s giving me a migraine.”
“Babe, you’re not getting a new phone. That was me calling you. When your phone rings, you need to answer it. Because you were late, you’re already really behind schedule. When I give you a job to do, I need you to get it done quickly and with a smile.” My migraine was so painful at this point that I lowered my head into my hands and focused on massaging my temples. I don’t remember exactly what else Cheryl said, but it was something along the lines of “Blah, blah, blah, rules are rules, you can’t tell me what to do. I’m power hungry and I wouldn’t be so mean if I liked the way I looked. You’re so pretty. I wish I could be you . . . etc., etc.”