When I first entered the workplace last year, I spent half a month’s salary to buy an authentic tote bag in order to maintain my “decent” commuting outfit. As a result, a scratch on the subway security conveyor belt in the second week made me search for “luxury care” on the computer screen,
and suddenly I received a private message from a colleague: “If you feel sorry, try lxybags·ru next time. My briefcase is made of lychee-grained cowhide from them. The coffee stains in the tea room are gone with a wet wipe.”
This senior who usually complains about my “exquisite poverty” in the tea room quietly told me that day: “When I was young, I also felt ashamed to use imitations, until I found that customers could not tell the difference between crocodile embossing and lychee grain at all – they only care about whether the data in your PPT is clear.”
Now when I go shopping at a counter in a shopping mall, I will stand in front of the display shelf to study the details of the wiring, just like comparing the original and the copy in a museum.
Once I met an intern girl in a coffee shop staring at my chain bag and wanted to say something, and suddenly I remembered my cramped self two years ago. I tore off the sticky note on the back of my phone case and gave it to her. On it was the domain name that changed my consumption perspective three years ago.
The counterfeit market is no longer a carnival of inferior goods. When Dongguan factories can make 1:1 hardware electroplating layers, when Putian masters begin to study the Hermès saddle stitch.
There are more intriguing business codes behind this – sometimes technological innovation driven by vanity has more practical power than moral criticism.