My journey into the fun house of fakes began, as so many things do these days, on TikTok. Like many men, I had been content carrying a tote bag or backpack. Then my algorithm introduced me to Love Luxury, a designer consignment store offering previously owned Hermès bags. This wasn’t about saving money, exactly. A Birkin with a retail price of around $12,000 — already an egregious amount of money — could be resold for twice or three times its original price.
I found the extreme wealth both revolting and fascinating. I gobbled up clips of people playing the so-called Hermès Game — in which Birkin seekers tithe tens of thousands of dollars to Hermès boutiques in the hope that they might be offered the chance to buy one of their sought-after bags. My TikTok For You page soon became nothing but unboxings and reviews of other luxury brands, including Chanel, Dior, Bottega Veneta and Loewe. I began to lust after these designer goods, imagining which ones were right for me.
Except that I am not rich, and neither are my parents or anybody I am likely to date. Besides, surely such sums would be better spent on the deposit for a house. But the overwhelming deluge of bag content made me desperate for the luxury my lackluster bank balance would never permit.
Then my algorithm served me up handbag dupes and replicas, imported from China. Buying them felt like an act of rebellion against the luxury brands that help enforce class division.
But I couldn’t stop. Buying dupe after dupe quickly became a destabilizing obsession — on account of platforms that incentivize everything but stopping.
When I came across a video about the now-viral Walmart Birkin — or Wirkin — I saw a way to participate in a world that had enthralled me. While we don’t have Walmart in Britain, I found one on an online marketplace called OnBuy. I bought it for $61. It took nearly a month to arrive from China. When it did, I was delighted. I doubted it was anything close to an authentic Birkin, but it was soft and smelled like real leather, not plastic. I took it out that night to meet friends, showing it off like a child with a new toy. They passed it around, surprised by how luxe it felt and giggling over the idea that I was now cosplaying as an überwealthy fashionista. Carrying this bag allowed me to escape into the fantasy of unachievable wealth. I felt like someone who no longer struggled to pay the rent.
In 2019 the sale of counterfeit goods accounted for 2.5 percent of world trade, worth a total of $464 billion. On Reddit, there is a robust subculture of dupe hunters. The counterfeits they seek not only democratized access to designer bags but also were symbols of resistance against the apparent greed of companies like Chanel and LVMH, which over the past six years have vastly increased prices and scored growing profits.
My Wirkin was also a subtle way of signifying my queerness. I have always been a tad queeny, something that was derided when I was a child. As a result, I have clung to traditionally masculine fashion in the hope that it would shield me from homophobia, while my queer friends embrace women’s clothes and dabble with makeup. Carrying a handbag became a way to display femininity in a way that is true to who I am.
Next I bought a dupe of Bottega’s intricately woven Andiamo bag, then a fake Coach bag, then a faux Acne Studios tote, another pretend Birkin (burgundy, size 35), a counterfeit Goyard Saint Louis in green and a dupe of a delightfully slouchy Songmont crossbody. If real, they would have cost me over $37,000. Instead, I was out only around $400. That may not seem like much to some (how fortunate), but for me, it was about half a month’s rent. I took on debt. I told myself I could afford the bags by spreading the cost with Klarna, a buy-now-pay-later program, despite each additional purchase and the subsequent partial payments pushing me further into overdraft.
I have spent hours and hours scrolling Chinese e-commerce platforms like DHGate and AliExpress, coveting fakes for sale. I’ve messaged sellers about the leather used on their replicas of Loewe’s signature Puzzle bag (authentic: $3,500; dupe: $90). I’ve stayed up until 4 a.m. reading user reviews of the Row’s more structured Margaux bag (authentic: $5,500; dupe: just over $100). Whenever I ordered something, I compulsively tracked my package from China to Britain. When it arrived, I’d tear open the many layers of packaging and smell the bag, caress the leather and examine the hardware. Though I had no reason to, I would leave the house with it, eager to take it on its debut outing. I’ve carried a Birkin to the supermarket, filling it with produce for dinner that evening, and worn my Andiamo, empty aside from some lip balm and a book, to the pub.
Friends and family began to express their concern at the number of bags I was ordering. “I think it’s important that you stop,” my friend Kate texted me. I agreed, but each night social media led me back to the bags. A few weeks later, only after my friend Jonathan mentioned that he found the hyperconsumerism I was engaged in distasteful, I really took pause.
I looked back on the previous months and saw someone in the grips of an obsessional spiral. By chasing the dopamine hit that came with securing the next bag or gobbling up TikToks, I wasn’t able to see my addictive and destructive behaviors or the way that debt would only continue to mount. I was skimping on my food shopping, taking on extra work and avoiding social situations where I knew I would have to spend money. I put off going to the dentist. I was out of control, like someone possessed, spending far beyond my means. I felt foolish; these bags had been tarnished by my newfound shame.
I deleted TikTok, as well as the apps for the Chinese marketplaces, but by then, it was too late: The rest of my social media accounts were flooded with handbag content. On YouTube, my home page was a solid wall of influencers doing bag hauls from China. Almost every Instagram story I watched was followed by a luxury brand or retailer offering designer bags for sale. I was even pushed targeted ads while reading the news. I began to see this all for what it was: a symbiotic network of influencers, social media, e-commerce platforms and digital advertising, all designed to capitalize on my inability to regulate myself.
How do you endure life online when that life consists of constantly being sold things? While the obvious answer is to log off, how feasible is that, really? These social media platforms are designed to extract not only our time but also, increasingly, our money — whether we can afford it or not.
I can’t entirely absolve myself, though. By buying these bags, I was chasing the illusion of status or happiness. While I self-soothed, I was still complicit in voracious consumerism. There was nothing radical or rebellious about it; I was still entranced by the lure of luxury brands, eager to be a part of their club. I had been duped by the dupes.
Alim Kheraj is a British journalist who writes about music, culture and L.G.B.T.Q. issues.
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