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The Los Angeles Shoe Diaries: The Pair That Started It All

Francesca Ayala |
September 2, 2009 | 5:18 p.m. PDT

Columnist
The shoes
The shoes that proved glamor in L.A. is no easy feat. (photo by Francesca Ayala)

"My boss gave them to me because they didn't fit her, but they're really not my style," said Ina as she dug through the heap of Paul Frank flip-flops, Urban Outfitters black gladiator sandals and chunky Prada pumps piled at the foot of her staircase.

Not her style? I sat at the kitchen table of her Costa Mesa home and continued devouring what was left of my steak and egg burrito as I pondered. What on earth would a girl whose everyday ensembles included BluBlockers, hot pink rain boots and necklaces made of tiny plastic male genitalia (given as a joke but taken seriously) consider un-wearable?

"Here they are," she announced as she dangled them in front of me.

I shifted my focus from stealing some of her seasoned curly fries to the glint of what I knew could only be patent leather. In her hands was a beautiful pair of black peep-toe pumps from Steve Madden. I associated the brand with the platform flip-flops and chunky-heeled sneakers that graphically enhanced models with enormous, Blythe doll heads in ad campaigns throughout the '90s. I remember ripping those ads out of Seventeen magazine when I was in middle school, taping them next to the boy band posters on my wall and begging my mother to buy me some so I could, even at my most awkward, feel some semblance of cool.

But these pumps Ina held in front of me were a far cry from the clunky, sparkly, teeny-bopper trends from the mid-'90s. As I, so the brand, too, had grown up. Not bad, I thought. Then, she flipped them around to reveal three-inch stiletto heels covered in leopard-print faux fur. They were one size too big for my size-six feet, but that wasn't about to stop me from giving these babies a permanent spot in my shoe closet. I was officially in love.

Leave it to one of my oldest friends to know that a night out in Orange County, slam dancing and singing along to a Britpop cover band, could come to a perfect close at 4 a.m. with fast food and free shoes.

When I asked why she didn't like them, Ina simply replied, "I just can't wear stilettos anymore. I prefer safer, chunkier heels."

As the third owner of these sexy, shiny (and supposedly unsafe) she-Devil shoes, I was determined to do them justice in a way their previous owners had not. Moving to Los Angeles from my hometown in the Philippines a mere five months prior, I had packed my Samsonite only with staples that would make any seasoned fashion-phile in this Botox Babylon wrinkle her cosmetically enhanced nose in disgust. I was here to pursue a master's degree. So naturally, my inclination was to be practical. As a result, I didn't take any cocktail dresses. I didn't bring jewelry. And I certainly didn't take any heels with me.

I understand that living a life out of high heels may be a de rigueur existence for some. However, having been raised by a scholar-turned-model, I learned that the skills with which one could write an argumentative essay could easily be applied to putting an outfit together. To have real style, Mom said, you had to be smart.

Now, thanks to the charity of childhood friends, I was looking forward to giving my L.A. wardrobe a much-needed boost in glamour.

I had no such luck.

The first time I actually put the fabulous Steve Maddens on, I was attempting to practice walking in them within the confines of my South Central apartment. I hoped that the slight discrepancy from my actual shoe size would have little effect on the strut I had rehearsed in my head. Instead, what I had imagined to be a walk worthy of the runway turned into an oafish hobble across my living room floor that ended when I tripped over my carpet and fell flat on my face.

Sorry, Mom.

I've made a note to invest in cushioned insoles for the next time I try those heels on.



 

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