LuLaRoe

I read an article the other day about how MLM (multi level marketing) companies are ruining women's friendships. The gist of it was this:

Our 30s and 40s are a difficult time to make friends. Our kids are a little older, so we don't get the benefit of Mommy and Me or playgroups. We have largely outgrown or lost contact with friends from high school or college. Many of us are headed back to work, as our youngest children go to school. It can be a very lonely time.

To take advantage of that vulnerability, in swoops the "MLM Hun." The Hun (so called due to her frequent usage of the endearment, "hun;" it's an easy way to not have to remember your name) might be a lady whose dress you complimented at church last week. She might be a fellow mom from your kid's soccer team. She might be a woman you went to high school with, and haven't spoken to in ages. One way or another, she will exploit your loneliness, pretend to want to be your friend, and BAM! Before you know it, the sales pitch has begun and you are left reeling. Did she actually want to be friends, or just to sell something?

Well, have a seat, friendly people, and let me tell you the story of how my best friend and I briefly became Huns (although we never used that word,) got sucked up into the world of MLMs, came to our senses, and got out.

Four years ago, my bestie, Jenny, lost her husband. Dan was 36 and perfectly healthy, except for a very minor seizure disorder. When I say "minor," what I mean is that he had had maybe a dozen brief seizures in his entire life, they were easily controlled with medication, and there was no indication that they would ever cause anything more than a slight inconvenience to his family and life. Then, one awful night in January, Dan had a seizure and was gone, leaving a huge void and a heartbroken family.

A few months after Dan died, I discovered a tiny clothing company called LuLaRoe. They made maxi skirts, leggings, and dresses; the kinds of things I liked to wear, in bright colors and soft, stretchy fabrics. My youngest had just turned one, and I was feeling insecure about my body, but the LuLaRoe clothes made me feel better.

I thought they might make Jenny feel better too. I mean, nothing makes you feel better for very long, when your entire world has ended and you don't recognize your life. But sometimes a bright, pretty outfit can help. Just for a minute or two. I gave Jenny a tunic and a few pairs of leggings, and she was (like many people at that time) hooked.

We liked to shop together, we had favorite LuLaRoe retailers that we enjoyed buying from, and one day, after talking to Jesse, I asked Jenny if she would like to go into business together. It seemed like a good idea at the time; she needed an income, I wanted to get out of the house, and we were spending all this money on clothes anyway. She immediately said yes, and we met with a retailer that lived close to us, to get set up.

Okay, so, before we go any further, let me explain something about LuLaRoe, at least back then:

They hide the MLMness of it very very very well. Jenny and I asked about recruiting. We had no desire to supervise or work with anyone else, and we were wary of "businesses" where it is next to impossible to make money selling the products, because the real money is in recruiting OTHER people to sell the products. Our sponsor told us that 90% of LuLaRoe retailers didn't even HAVE anyone under them, and were making money simply by buying the clothes at wholesale and selling them at retail. In hindsight, this was a huge lie, but our sponsor didn't have anyone underneath HER and she was making money hand over fist, so we figure she thought she was telling the truth.

We started selling in February, two years after Dan had died. During our first few months, we did very well. We reinvested our profits into new inventory, expanded our offerings, and by June, we started paying ourselves. Our plan was simple and (not to toot our horns or anything,) not unintelligent: we would order new inventory once a month, to keep things fresh and keep sales flowing. Anything above that, we would use to write our paychecks.

Our commitment to paying ourselves is probably what kept us above water. By the time we'd been in business for a year, sales had dried WAY up, new inventory was proving nearly impossible to get, and the quality of clothing we were receiving, when we could even get it, was going downhill fast. Here are some examples of what I mean:

LuLaRoe would release new products at a specified time, online. They called these "launches." The way it worked was that you would log in to your back office and be assigned a spot in the digital "queue." Once your place in line was up, you could fill your cart, pay, and be done.

The launch that broke our spirits was called "Noir." It was a collection of solid black dresses, leggings, skirts, and tunics that got all kinds of hype on Facebook and Instagram. People were serious about this collection. LuLaRoe's fit was so nice and forgiving and comfy, and everyone wanted solid black in every piece. Jenny was busy that night, so I logged in on our computer, my tablet, and my phone, with strict instructions to order everything I possibly could, in as many sizes as possible. I didn't usually do the ordering for our shop; that was Jenny's job, and she was fantastic at it, so I was nervous about this anyway.

We got nothing. The launch was pure chaos. Thousands of people logged in on thousands of devices, and by the time I got in to shop, every solid black dress, top, and pair of leggings was gone. We were incredibly frustrated, and as it turns out, we were not the only ones. A handful of large shops got Noir, but the vast majority of smaller retailers did not. That was the beginning of the end for us.

One day, we ordered a huge shipment of dresses and when they arrived, half of them were see-through. When we brought this up to corporate, they cheerfully told us to "have people size up!" You can't ask a woman who is a size 10 to wear a 2XL, just so her bra won't show. That's not how dresses work.

We received leggings that split across the bum after one wear. We got tunics that leached dye all over everything they touched. One memorable cardigan smelled like something dead. We had to hang it outside for days before we could even bring it into the shop, and suddenly it became excessively complicated to send damaged items back to corporate.

The recycled fiber program, which one one of the major appeals of the brand for us, was phased out. Fair trade was, too. Sizing was inconsistent, and it was not uncommon for us to get back-order slips in nearly every shipment. Of course, these were never refunded. We received warehouse credits, rather than refunds, which were hard to use because nothing was ever in stock.

The final nail in the coffin was the moment when we realized that LuLaRoe had not produced any new inventory in six months. This was clearly not a sign of a healthy company. Jenny and I were on the phone with each other. I was in Ohio and she was in Oregon, and we decided we were done. We got all of our money off of LuLaRoe's internal invoicing system, had an epic sale (using Square, not LLR's app) and donated the rest to charity.

Then, because we don't believe in rules and rarely do as we are told, Jenny and I started reading the so-called "LLR hater" pages on social media. During our stint with the company, we had been told repeatedly to STAY AWAY from these groups. They were evil. Haters. Ruiners of Christmas and families' dreams.

Except they were not. They were supportive, kind, funny, and very very very smart. They saw LuLaRoe for what it was: a scam. A way to prey on the most vulnerable: the poor, the scared, the mom lacking confidence, who needed a little boost. Our 30s and 40s can be a lonely, weird time. Add to that the economic uncertainty that we've all been dealing with, and you have a victim so ideal that the MLM vampires couldn't invent her.

We were lucky. We never went into debt, and we made our money back. So many women did NOT. They were promised extra money for their families, for their retirement, for their children to go to college. They were promised friends and financial freedom. Neither LuLaRoe, nor any other MLM, has ever delivered on the promises it has made. I know that's a bold statement, and I know some people will read this and say,

"No, no! My MLM is different!" If this is you, listen. I love you and I get it. I get the desire to make a little money, not to work for someone else, and I get that sometimes you genuinely do love the products. But the MLM business model is BAD. And you know what else? You could start your own business, using the skills you've picked up in the MLM world, and really make it work. Anyone can wholesale products. Anyone. You want to sell makeup? Get a wholesale account with a makeup manufacturer. I guarantee that you will pay less than you're paying now. You want to sell clothes? Start shopping, baby. You can do this! It's cheaper than LuLaRoe and easier to start small!

And if you are being targeted by a "Hun," be kind. MLMs are what they are because they are professional con artists. They are experts in getting people to believe their hype and buy in to their promises. Human beings are all naive, all fallible, all easily sold. Offer a little grace, if you can, to that woman who invited you out for coffee and then smacked you with a sales pitch. She's a victim of the MLM machine, too. Who knows? Your weird experience might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.