This reader’s personal narrative gives insight into the elusive world of acquiring a coveted bag at Hermès in Paris. While she may have been successful, it’s important to emphasize that the pursuit of a Hermès bag remains a highly individualized and unpredictable endeavor, where factors such as timing, relationships with boutique staff, and sheer luck play substantial roles. What worked for her may not necessarily work for everyone, as each client’s journey towards securing an Hermès bag is a unique and often unpredictable experience.
In this way, the advice she offers is based on her personal experience. It should not be taken as rules and/or regulations or the advice of PurseBop.
By Kim Alpert
I’ve always been up for a challenge.
- Run a 10K? Check. ✅
- Master making a gluten-free soufflé without it collapsing? Eventually, check. ✅
- Build a museum and re-create a beloved vintage runway show? Oh, that was a saga. ✅
Score an offer to purchase a bag from Hermès in Paris the week before Christmas with no profile? Now that’s a challenge with a story worth sharing…
I often joke that I’m fluent in Chanel. My entire business, Anthology of Style, revolves around curating the best of vintage and modern Chanel for collectors, helping them add coveted pieces to their closets. And my personal collection? 100% Chanel.
But anyone fluent in Chanel inevitably catches snippets of the Hermès conversation and wonders: What’s the story over there?
Hermès had always been on my radar—particularly their vintage pieces. I’d even begun to dip my toes into learning more about the brand. Still, I didn’t yet own one of their iconic bags. My Hermès cashmere coat, a gift to myself for my birthday last year, was as close as I’d come. It’s one of my most prized possessions, but I’ll admit the Hermès leather game felt intimidating. I’m used to having access to any bag in the world for my clients—the idea of having to make the right chess moves to buy a bag for myself was entirely new territory.
So, when a friend invited me to do a live show in Paris, I immediately said yes. While I had visited Paris for a few days here and there, this would be my first full week in the City of Light. The part of me that loves a challenge whispered, Maybe you can get a leather appointment. It’s Paris! People do that in Paris!
Little did I know how naïve that voice was.
After hours of fruitless Googling “secrets to getting a leather appointment in Paris,” I finally gave in and frantically called a business friend for advice.
“What, where, when, and howwwww do I even try to get a bag offer?” I asked, exasperated.
“Okay, breathe. This is going to be a challenge, but we can do this. We can try. Here’s what you need to know,” she said, calmly outlining the basics.
- Apply for a leather appointment, DAILY, using French WiFi (VPNs won’t work).
- Make a purchase on your first day to create a profile.
- Be persistent, polite, and charming at the leather desk.
- Wear your Hermès coat.
Simple enough, right?
So, I followed her directions religiously. I was in Paris for a LIVE show event, and the shows ran all night. We’d pour ourselves into bed at 7 or 8 a.m. Paris time, and I’d set two or three alarms to wake me up for just long enough to submit an appointment request at 10:30 before tumbling back to sleep.
On the third day of this, my teammates and I managed to stay awake into the daylight hours and visit the Hermès Sevres location. My first impression was that it was so full of LIFE. It was like a beehive of fashion, practically buzzing with what seemed like a thousand people in the cavernous store (it used to be a swimming pool!), and there were beautiful things—scarves! bracelets! boots! dishes!—everywhere you looked.
Clothing is my weakness, so I inevitably found myself in the RTW section, fawning over the sweaters. A young blonde woman approached me and asked if she could help. Rather than say YES!, I blurted out, “You wouldn’t happen to be Joanna?”
“No,” she replied, looking confused.
“Oh, I was hoping to work with her today. Do you know if she’s available?”
“You’ll have to check with the desk, over there,” the woman said, bewildered.
Little did I know that at busy Hermès stores in Paris, you had to request a sales associate’s help, and only when one was available—after the line of people in front of you—would you be assisted. What I had just done was the equivalent of kicking a gift horse in the mouth.
Naively, we went over to the desk and asked for Joanna.
“The only Joanna here works at the welcome desk and cannot help you on the floor,” the attendant replied. “Second, please put those garments back, as security will have a fit with you walking around with them. Please wait in RTW, and I’ll send someone to assist when they are available.”
Sheepishly, we retraced our steps to RTW, and I returned the sweaters to their homes. We waited awkwardly for about 15 minutes (insert meme about waiting patiently in Hermès) before deciding it was a lost cause and leaving.
The next day, I tried my luck at Hermès’s Parisian flagship store: Faubourg Saint-Honoré, affectionately referred to as FSH. Set on the most lovely, fairy-lit and trellis-lined street in Paris, the store was a beacon for bag lovers. In the window sat a Birkin the size of a car.
If someone could dream big enough to have that Birkin made and displayed, I thought, I can certainly still hold on to my dream of starting my H journey in Paris.
During the live show the night before, we had completely sold out of vintage scarves. A client had asked me to pick up some cashmere scarves for her while I was in Paris, so I arrived at the store with a clear purpose. This time, I went straight to the welcome desk to request a sales associate. One was assigned to me quickly, and we made our way to the scarves section.
She led me to the scarves section, where I selected three beautiful, triangular ones in record time.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked.
I took a deep breath before asking, “Is there any way to see a leather specialist?”
She frowned slightly and replied, “You could check in with the leather desk to see if there are any cancellations.” With that, she led me over to the cash register, where her colleague rang up my purchases.
Afterward, I made my way to the leather desk she had indicated and joined the line behind three other hopefuls, all asking the same question:
“Can you please find a leather appointment for me?”
As each person was politely but firmly told that they were fully booked for the day, my heart sank a little deeper. When it was finally my turn, I managed a small smile.
“I’m sorry—I bet you know what I’m going to ask.”
The man, older with short grey-and-white hair (let’s call him M), smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid we are fully booked, Madam.”
“Would it be at all possible to check for a cancellation?” I asked, clinging to hope.
He quickly scrolled through his phone. “I’m sorry, there is nothing available today.”
“Ah, I understand,” I replied, softening my tone. “This is my first trip to Paris, and I’m really looking to purchase a bag to commemorate the occasion. The more I learn about Hermès, the more I appreciate what the brand stands for. I know a quota bag is unlikely, but I’d be open to anything.”
“I wish there was something I could do,” he said, sounding genuinely sad.
“I appreciate your time,” I said. I really did. “Would it be OK if I tried again tomorrow?”
“Yes, or even later tonight,” he replied kindly.
Before leaving, I asked one of the greeters to take a photo with me and the jolly reindeer in the display by the door. We chatted for a moment, and with endless patience, he kept snapping photos until I found one I liked. His kindness gave me a renewed sense of hope in my Hermes mission..
I wandered around the neighborhood, knowing that staying nearby to check in again later would mean sacrificing sleep before my show that evening—but I had to try. I popped into a few vintage stores in the area, enjoying the confidence of being back in my Chanel comfort zone. I even found a vintage jacket that will be featured in my next museum curation!
As I walked the beautiful cobblestoned streets back to FSH, I coached myself: You still have three days in Paris. This is all part of the experience.
Back at the leather desk, M wouldn’t meet my eye. His colleague politely explained that there were no appointments available that afternoon.
“Could I try again tomorrow?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he replied with a small nod.
I walked the 25 minutes home, taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of Paris. As I neared my Airbnb in the 8th arrondissement, I passed the George V store—a beautiful jewel box of a boutique with original wooden signage and giant windows that poured warm yellow light into the dusky street.
Proudly carrying the orange Hermès bag holding my scarves, I walked in and joined the line at the leather desk. The woman in front of me looked distraught, her face reddening as she exclaimed, “This is ludicrous,” before storming away.
The desk manager and I exchanged a glance.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently.
She exhaled and said, “Yes, yes. Happens all the time.”
“I suppose there’s little point in my asking the same question?” I replied, crossing my fingers behind my back.
She gave me a knowing look and said, “This is the smallest store in Paris. If I could help you, I would. You’ll have better luck at FSH or Sevres.”
Darn. “I understand, thank you,” I said as I turned to leave the store.
As I stepped out into the evening, I very nearly started to feel sorry for myself. Maybe this was one challenge I just wasn’t up for. But as I strolled toward my apartment, past holiday displays and bistros with delicious smells wafting into the streets, I reminded myself that I was on my way to work in Paris with some of my closest friends and colleagues.
Even if this trip didn’t end with an H purchase, it was still part of the journey. I was already gaining fluency in H tactics, and in some ways, I had achieved my goal—my journey to an Hermès bag had begun in Paris. Whether it was this trip or another, I promised myself I wouldn’t give up.
It struck me that this was part of the magic of Hermès. The same care and effort that goes into crafting the bags is mirrored in the process of acquiring one. There’s no better way to imbue an item with meaningful memories than to delay gratification.
It’s pretty brilliant, Hermès. I see you.
The next day, I tried again for an online appointment, but after going without sleep the day before, I couldn’t manage another physical visit. It wasn’t until my final full day in Paris that I tried again in-store.
In the meantime, a friend of mine had shared a request with me—a micro Doré Kelly charm. She’s an Hermès expert and had sent me photos, complete with the item code, along with her request.
I walked into FSH at exactly 10:30, as soon as the doors opened, hoping that arriving early might give me better luck, away from the afternoon rush. The store was noticeably quieter than on my previous visits. I greeted the welcome attendants before heading to the leather desk with a bit of bounce in my step.
To my dismay, while the rest of the store was relatively empty, the line at the leather desk was longer than ever. From my position, all I could hear was a slightly exasperated M repeatedly saying, “Non, non, non.”
At that moment, I accepted that this trip would not be the one where I purchased my first H bag. That was out of my control. I’d done everything I could, and all that remained was to focus on what was within my control.
I decided to make the most of this trip regardless. It had already been a wild success—we had a fabulous event, connected with new vendors, planned some incredible shows for 2025, I had grown much closer with one of my European colleagues, and, after all, I’d spent a week in Paris!
I resolved to commemorate the start of my H journey with a special purchase, even if it wasn’t with a bag. When I finally reached M, I smiled and said:
“Hello, happy holidays, and just know your unending patience doesn’t go unnoticed. I’m here to tell you I’m NOT looking for a leather appointment today.” His eyes widened. “But I would like to know, please, who I can ask to see if this charm is in stock,” I asked, holding up my phone.
With great relief, M warmly ushered me to the right, where one of his colleagues was waiting.
“This is S. He would be delighted to assist you.”
S, who bore a striking resemblance to a young Charlie Hunnam, immediately smiled and said, “How can I be of service?”
“I’m looking for this as a gift for a friend,” I said, showing him my screen with the photo pulled up. “Do you need the product code?”
“No, I know this one,” he said, tapping on his phone. “I’m so sorry. We are sold out in this boutique. It looks like there may be one at George V, but it’s possible that this inventory count isn’t up to date as they sell so quickly.”
“I’ll check anyway—that’s right near where I’m staying. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Well, this is my first real trip to Paris, and I was hoping to purchase my first H bag, but I’ve come to understand that a leather appointment won’t be possible. However, I’d still like to buy something as a memory of this trip.”
“Certainly,” he smiled. “What bag were you looking for?”
“Oh, well. I’m really open. Of course, I’d love a B or K—who wouldn’t? But I’d also be open to a Kelly Danse, Kelly Moove, or even a Kelly To Go.”
“I see,” he nodded, thinking. After a moment, he said, “Let’s focus on the task at hand—a special memento. How about a cardholder?”
He led me to a glass-topped podium and pulled out a tray of colorful cardholders, each crafted from layered, structured leather in various colors. The layers, reminiscent of Earth’s strata, were cut to different lengths to form intricate designs and scenes.
I don’t know what came over me, but I leaned in and whispered, “Oh, I find them a bit ugly.”
After a beat passed and I realized what I’d said, I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I’m sure people love them. That was just my gut reaction—I can’t believe I said that out loud!”
S dipped his head back and laughed, deep and from his belly. After a moment, he said, “They are rather specific. Perhaps you’d like something more classic,” as he led me toward another podium. “I like honesty. Otherwise, I can’t help you find what you truly want.”
Relief flooded through me as I followed him. I quickly said a silent prayer to the patron saint of kind SAs.
At the new podium, he pulled out a tray of classic Bearn wallets. “What do you think of these?”
Two items caught my eye immediately: a sleek black box calf wallet with gold hardware and a perfect pink wallet studded with the raised dots of ostrich leather.
“Oh! Yes, these are much more like what I was looking for!”
I picked up the pink wallet first and asked him about the color.
“It’s Bubblegum Pink. The exterior is in ostrich leather, and inside, here,” he pointed, “is chèvre goatskin.”
“It’s dreamy. May I also ask—is this one,” I pointed to the box calf wallet, “uncommon? I heard that the maison stopped using this leather for a while.”
“Only in certain styles. Bearn wallets are made in box calf, but it is undeniably beautiful.”
I looked at both wallets. I could immediately tell which one made my heart sing.
“I’ll take the pink one, please,” I said.
“Wonderful,” S answered. “Let me see if there’s a new one.” He tapped away on his phone for a moment. “No, this is the only one in the boutique. Lucky you. I’ll put this aside.”
I could have sworn there was a sparkle in his eye as he said his next line, though I might have imagined it because, by now, I was fully under the spell of Hermès.
“Is there anything else you’d like to look at today?”
My heart started beating faster. He’d asked me this question before, but this time it felt different, like reaching a new level in a video game. Excitement bubbling up inside me, the celebratory “LEVEL UP” screen from childhood games flashing in my mind. But just as quickly, the weight of caution settled in; one wrong move, and I could lose my remaining lives. I couldn’t rush this.
“Well, I love RTW,” I said cautiously, pointing at the buttons on my cashmere H coat.
“Yes, I see. Let me take you to my colleague in RTW. I’ll ask him about the possibility of a leather appointment as well.”
I laughed—out of giddiness (is this happening??) or genuine disbelief (sir, don’t you know, you’re fully booked?).
“I am a rather small human. If he could just slip me in, I’d be forever grateful.”
I followed S upstairs to the RTW floor, where he spoke in hushed tones to a tall, chic, dark-haired man, seemingly in his early 30s.
While waiting, I glanced around the space. Women were milling about, admiring the beautiful clothing. I’ve always appreciated that luxury boutiques take care to showcase each piece. Nothing is crammed together on a rack—everything is displayed spaciously, given room to breathe, to shine. The garments seemed like works of art in a gallery rather than sweaters in a shop.
“Allow me to introduce you to my colleague, A,” S said, gesturing to the man standing beside him. “He is finishing with a client, but then he will assist you with the clothing floor. Would you mind waiting here?”
“Of course not,” I replied, shaking A’s hand before taking a seat in the plush chair S indicated.
I tried to lose myself scrolling on social media to pass the time, but for once, the algorithm couldn’t compete with the world around me. At Hermès, it’s almost impossible to focus on anything but Hermès. The faint hum of conversation mingled with the soft rustle of fabric, creating an atmosphere that felt both serene and electric. My eyes wandered, drawn to the outfits displayed like masterpieces in an ultra-chic museum. Every detail—perfectly arranged garments, the interplay of textures, the understated elegance of the space—invited me to pause, admire, and immerse myself completely in the experience.
After about 20 minutes, A came over and thanked me for waiting. “Is there anything in particular you are shopping for today?”
“No, actually, I just have a weakness for RTW. Is it OK if I browse?”
“The floor is yours, madam,” he said.
A long-sleeved black knit dress caught my eye with its alternating ribs of cashmere, leather, and sheer silk organza. I could already imagine wearing it to dinners with my husband or even to a fashion-forward business meeting.
Appearing at my side, A asked, “Is this to your liking?”
I nodded as I wondered if he could read my mind.
“You’ll need a size—”
“34 or 36,” we said in unison, perfectly in sync.
He chuckled before disappearing to see what he could find.
I continued wandering, vibrating with an energy I’d never experienced before, my fingers lightly brushing against the fabrics. A cashmere bomber jacket caught my eye, trimmed with leather patches near the shoulders. It was an eminently practical yet striking choice—the kind of effortlessly cool piece I could throw on over anything in the spring or fall and instantly look put-together.
As I turned to check if A had returned, I gasped. Right in front of me was the most glorious piece of clothing I had ever seen. It was made of cascading yards of cashmere, trimmed with supple leather and adorned with delicate silver studs. It was the coat equivalent of the Hermès Clouté Mini Kelly 20, a bag I coveted with all my heart.
I raised my hand to its edge. The cashmere was softer than I had imagined—plush, yet thick and with an undeniable sense of durability. The silver studs were rounded, catching just the right amount of light to be elegant without being overpowering. And the leather—oh, the leather—was as soft as rose petals.
“This is my favorite piece from the FW runway,” A whispered, startling me. I hadn’t noticed his return. “It’s just sublime.”
“Majestic,” I agreed in similarly hushed tones. “Do you -, do you think you might have it in a 34? Can I please try it on?”
“This is the only one in the store,” A replied without needing to check. “Size 34.”
In the recesses of my mind, I heard a faint “snick,” as though the puzzle pieces of this trip were falling into place with perfect precision. I nodded.
A carefully gathered the studded masterpiece, along with one final coat option—a belted version of my current coat in beige—and carried them to the dressing room. Offering me water or champagne—neither, thank you—he left me to my glory.
I tried on the dress first. It was too bulky for my small frame. I placed it to the side.
Next, I tried the bomber jacket. I liked it a lot—it had serious model-off-duty vibes—but, unfortunately, the one I tried was the last navy blue in stock, and it was a size 40. It looked decent from the front, but the moment I turned to the side, it was clear I was swimming in it.
The beige coat was hanging next on the dressing room wall. I looked briefly before deciding it was far too similar to the one I already owned. Don’t tell A, but I didn’t even bother trying it on.
Finally, I reached for the dream coat and felt my blood quicken. Inspired by equestrian blankets, its silhouette was expertly draped to accommodate an impressive amount of fabric. As I slipped it over my shoulders, the weight felt deliciously substantial, like a hug.
The coat featured an ingenious belt, threading inside on one side and cinching the waist on the other. I tied it as I looked in the mirror.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize myself.
Or, rather, I saw a version of myself that I sometimes try to be, aspire to be, but haven’t fully grown into yet.
Being young, female, and prone to coming to work in athleisure, I’m often asked in business situations if there’s a man who runs my company with me, or questioned about “who the decision-makers are.”
But standing there, in this unequivocally beautiful coat, I imagined myself walking into meetings and drawing confidence from looking every bit as powerful as I truly was—the owner and CEO of my fast-growing company.
This is the magic of fashion: it can shape your identity, if you let it. Now, I’m not saying everyone needs an Hermès coat, but everyone should try to see fashion as art—a tool to tell a story about who you are or who you aspire to be, even if just for an evening. That story can be edited, adapted, and rewritten over time, eventually becoming an integral part of your identity. I know I sound a bit like Miranda Priestly here (cerulean, etc.), but you get what I mean.
A gentle knock on the door pulled me from my philosophizing.
“I would like to… OH!” A said as I opened the door. “WOW. I know what I think, but what do you think?”
“I’m in love,” I answered.
“It couldn’t suit you more. May I?” A asked, adjusting the belt slightly and shifting some of the fabric to the side. “In New York, you may want to have the alteration team remove a bit of this fabric,” he said, stepping back and squinting to assess me from head to toe. “Yes, they will be delighted to work on such a piece.”
He picked up the binder he had brought in, that sat, until now, forgotten on the couch.
“This is the coat on the runway. It was styled with a leather belt, but you can choose how to wear it—with the belt it comes with or any other.”
A stepped back. “What do you think?”
I have a weakness for RTW, for clothing in general, and especially for coats. This is why my weekly RTW shows are my favorite. From the first moment I saw this coat, I knew it was meant to be mine, and that I would have her forever. The decision I had secretly made out on the sales floor solidified in that moment.
“She’s mine. She’s mine! What a special way to remember Paris.” I spun and pretended to swoon, smiling so wide it pulled my cheeks.
A clapped his hands. “She is magnificent. She suits you perfectly. I’m glad we were able to make this happen.”
He turned to collect the coat. Over his shoulder, he asked me, quietly, “Is there anything else I can show you today?”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. My mind said it wasn’t possible, but his tone directly contradicted that notion. It was now or never.
“Well, I’ve always wanted an H bag,” I replied slowly, “but I wasn’t able to get an appointment.”
“What bag would you be interested in?”
“Of course, I’d love a B or K, but I’d be open to anything really—a K Danse, a K Moove, or a K To Go.”
“Yes, S mentioned the K To Go. OK, let me go take a look.”
I assumed he meant he was going to check if he could sneak me into an appointment and possibly hand me off to another sales associate if I was lucky enough to be squeezed in.
At this point, I was overwhelmed with emotions—the pure joy and giddiness of my new wallet and coat, two pieces I genuinely loved and would cherish forever. The fact that my Paris journey had started this way filled me with pride – it was so true to ME. At the same time, it felt like reaching the final level of a game. Plus, I felt a true connection with both S and A – I’d never had such an easy fit with sales associates before. A strange sense of accomplishment settled over me as I reached for my phone to check my messages.
I had only made it through a few when the door opened.
It wasn’t just A who walked in—S was with him, and they were each carrying orange boxes.
My heart stopped beating. My ears stopped working. My brain stopped recording.
I barely remember what happened next. I think A said, “This bag is very special. This is a style called the Constance III Mini. It is crafted out of alligator leather in a beautiful blue-green shade called Vert Jade.”
As he cradled the bag in his gloved hands and carefully removed the protective tan felt, he revealed a gleaming jewel of a bag. The curves shimmered, the H clasp was covered in contrasting Noir alligator, and the size was perfect for my frame. He opened the bag to show me the interior.
“Yes.”
I felt like I was proposing.
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
A and S laughed. “We thought you’d like it.”
“Thank you so much. How can I ever thank you? I can’t believe this is happening—oh my gosh!”
“It was all S,” A said with a smile.
“That was teamwork,” S replied, “but this is all me.”
I had completely forgotten about the other box S had brought in.
He carefully lifted the lid and began to remove the felt, revealing shiny black box leather and gold hardware. “Kelly To Go,” he said. “This is the only one we have with this combination in the store.”
I was speechless.
It sounds silly, but I felt close to tears—not just because of the bags, though they were stunning, but because these two humans, nearly strangers, had gone out of their way to do something so thoughtful for me. Every detail I had shared—my questions about box leather, my desire for something out-of-the-ordinary to commemorate this trip, my openness to exotic skins—and even the details I hadn’t—like the Chanel micro Kelly crossbody I wore, or my black head-to-toe outfit accented only by my pink sneakers—seemed to have been noticed and taken into account.
Then, a ghastly thought interrupted my reverie.
“Do I have to choose?” I choked out.
They both laughed. “No, no. The Kelly To Go isn’t considered a bag so we’re able to offer both. They are yours, if you’d like them. It’s the holidays.”
S added, “You were nice. So many people forget to be nice. It’s our pleasure to be nice in return.”
“Thank you,” I said again, burying my face in my hands and shaking my head. “I can’t believe this is real. Thank you.”
As I carried the orange bags out of the store, the streets of Paris felt more magical than ever. The lights twinkled brighter, and the December air, though crisp, seemed to warm against my skin.
This wasn’t just about the bags or the coat—though they were exquisite. It was about the journey—pushing through moments of doubt, adapting my approach, and embracing serendipity.
Through this experience, I discovered something new about Hermès. While “the game” can feel frustrating in the moment, it’s their way of weaving a little magic into the ordinary. The effort required to acquire one of their pieces is part of the allure. Every step of the process—every line I stood in, every polite “non” I heard, every question I asked—added to the story these items would carry with them forever.
As I strolled down the cobblestone streets, past cafés alive with chatter, I realized my Hermès journey had only just begun. I wanted to continue supporting a house that didn’t simply sell objects but imbued them with meaning. This experience had already reshaped how I saw myself, reaffirming my belief in persistence, patience, and, most importantly, the value of kindness.
For me, fashion has always been about more than clothing or accessories. It’s a way to tell your story, to reveal a piece of your identity to the world. And now, with my new treasures tucked safely in their orange boxes, with all my shows complete for the year, with nothing but time to rest and reflect ahead, I was ready to step into the next chapter of mine.
Merci, Hermès. I see you—and I’ll be back.
Read related articles:
8 Reasons We Adore the Hermès Constance
19 Hermès Non-Quota Bag Options With U.S. Prices – 2024 Edition
Meet the Kellys: The Ultimate Hermès Kelly Dictionary
How to Care for the Hermès Constance
Top 10 Hermès & Chanel SLGs That Your Bags Needs
Charm Your Handbags à La Jane Birkin
Love, PurseBop
XO
Updated: December 29th, 2024
Comments
1 Responses to “Being Patient in Paris: My First Hermès Story”
At the beginning it was mentioned she had no profile at Hermes? But later ”My Hermès cashmere coat, a gift to myself for my birthday last year”. Isn’t it false to claim not having a profile if she already had purchased a coat?