#GIRLBOSS ( PDFDrive )

My first model was Emily, a gorgeous girl and my friend’s girlfriend at
the time. Covered in tattoos, with long hair and adorable bangs, she was
an unusual choice—but she was a great one. I shot maybe ten of the
items I’d accumulated, then plunked the description, measurements, and
other information into eBay and waited out my ten-day auctions,
answering the oh-so-exciting questions from my very first customers
along the way. Each week I grew faster, smarter, and more aware of
what women wanted. And each week my auctions did better and better. If
it sold, cool—I’d instantly go find more things like it. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t
touch anything like it with a ten-foot pole ever again. Shocking, but cute
girls apparently do not want to wear “drug rugs,” the beach-bum
sweatshirts that some prefer to call baja hoodies. It was addicting; for an
adrenaline freak like me, there was nothing like the instant gratification of
watching my auctions go live.
I scoured Craigslist for estate sales, and then made a map, starting
with whichever one sounded like the people who died were the oldest. I
would show up at 6:00 A.M. and stand in line with people who were all at
least twenty years my senior. When the doors opened, everyone else
started putzing around for doilies, while I bolted straight for the closet to
unearth vintage coats, mod minidresses, Halston-era disco gowns, and
many a Golden Girls tracksuit. I’d hoard, haggle, pay, and leave. Also a
regular at the local thrift stores, I waited for the employees to wheel
shopping carts of freshly priced merchandise out from the back, and
when they took an armload to hang up on the racks . . . pounce! I’d run
over and check out what mysteries awaited. Once, I found two Chanel
jackets in the same shopping cart. Flip, flip, flip—Chanel jacket—flip, flip,
flip—another one! I paid $8 for each of those Chanel jackets. I listed each
of them at a $9.99 starting bid and sold them for over $1,500. I didn’t
know what a “gross margin” was, but I knew I was on to something.
In retrospect I was probably the worst customer at the thrift store
because not only was I sneaky, but I also haggled. “This sweater has a
hole in it,” I’d say after marching up to the counter. “Can I get ten percent
off?” Even if it was only a matter of fifty cents, it was worth it to me. Every
cent counted.
At age twenty-two, I returned to the suburbs, a place I had run
screaming from just four years earlier. Space was at a premium in San
Francisco, so I set up shop in Pleasant Hill, California, an hour away from