Marcia Sherrill
Thrift Therapy
Barking back to a woman clad entirely in markdowns from SteinMart and damn proud of it, I shouted at her, 'I am a Brand.' I was well on my way to being a luxury snob.
BY
Marcia Sherrill
PHOTOGRAPHY
Tiffany Robinson

Now, I was the gal made notorious at the ripe old age of 25 for designing and actually carrying a $10,000 alligator handbag and was such an avowed sybarite that my own devoutly middle-class Norwegian Momma accused me of being Brand Obsessed. Barking back to a woman clad entirely in markdowns from SteinMart and damn proud of it, I shouted at her, 'I am a Brand.' I was well on my way to being a luxury snob. As I clutched a $3,000 Hermes blouse to my chest, she chased me down her hallway - stacked to the ceiling with thrift store 'finds' - while dodging barrel-sized containers of beauty school shampoos and conditioners, screaming, 'Where is your love of adventure?' How to explain to a woman whose car navigation system is set to drive on autopilot to the Dollar Store for all her cosmetics what a heady, even transcendent experience it is to sit at the Chanel counter while professionals scamper around for the season's perfect mascara? A stop at the Creeds counter for perfume leaves me weak at the knees.

But like most discerning design professionals, I was my Mother's Daughter. I knew that if you crave that season's black-patent shoe, it was Jimmy Choos at full retail; but a seashell-encrusted Blahnik could be had for cheap at that holiest of times on the Gregorian calendar, Neiman's Last Call; for painted Gustavian settees it was to 2300 Peachtree; and for the odd mid-century piece, digging around at Antiques and Beyond would eventually turn up a wheat sheaf gilt-metal chandelier.

The plain unvarnished truth is that with an ear pressed to the ground, the distant hoofbeats of luxury deals can be heard. If you are only patient and wait a moment, almost everything will be marked down, turned into a remnant or plain old discontinued. Having seen my own financial situation wax and wane since my recent divorce, I have perfected the art of thrifty living on a grand scale. Like a figure straight out of Henry James, I have taken my much-reduced circumstances with the aplomb of a banished aristocrat.

No, that $200-a-yard fabric is not mine for the asking - even with my designer discount. A bag of Popeye's in hand and a carton of chilled Perrier, and I'm on the road to Alpharetta where Boca Bargoons scoops up a warehouse full of decorator fabrics. So what if it doesn't have a tag proclaiming its provenance? I know a silk damask when I feel several yards of it wrapped around my trembling body. As for those Mongolian lamb pillows that must buttress me on a chilly night? A trip to Little Five Points nets a vintage jacklette perfect for the cutting up and sewing into my cherished bolsters. And if you can suffer the circus-like atmosphere and the constant plying of alcoholic beverages, then local auctions are the place to sit tight and pounce on painted- and parcel-gilt ballroom chairs.

My next cost-cutting bit of naughtiness? Well, PDK Airport is fairly littered with lovely Gulfstream aircraft, some of which must be headed my way (either to Birmingham or New York), so with battered Vuitton in hand I'm headed to that tarmac for the sport of 'hitch-flying.' LaGuardia, anyone?