Lularoe consultant mocks down syndrome1/22/2024 She favors bold costume jewelry and telegraphs a threatening enthusiasm acquaintances describe her as charismatic, excitable, and above all, chaotic. Now, she and Mark - a pink and blustery man who seems to sweat snake oil - preside over LuLaRoe with iron fists, according to the defected Boss Babes (to borrow corporate jargon) who went on the record for LuLaRich.ĭeAnne, our She-EO, looks like bridesmaid font incarnate, hair dyed the color of butter and sprayed into stiff mermaid waves. 2013, selling wholesale dresses and homemade maxi skirts at private home parties. This is the foundation of DeAnne’s lore: Herself a formerly “struggling mother” of 14, she birthed LuLaRoe out of her trunk, ca. They insist, throughout the course of a lengthy interview, that they only ever intended to empower women to be strong independent business ladies. The brains behind LuLaRoe - DeAnne Startup Brady Stidham (Startup is her actual maiden name) and her second husband, Mark Stidham - emphatically deny any illegal activity. (LuLaRoe has since changed its policies, and adjusted its start-up fee to $499.) But when you have one group’s investments paying into another group’s pockets, you also have a pyramid scheme, and you have broken the law. All that cash zipping up the line reportedly created tens of thousands of dollars in monthly bonuses for some managers, at least during the boom years. But for much of the company’s run, each consultant’s purchase of new items triggered a commission for the person who recruited them, regardless of whether or not any of the clothing ended up selling. LuLaRoe required its consultants to pay exorbitant buy-in fees, ranging from $5,000 to $10,000 for a starter pack of inventory, which they then were to sell through their own personal shops. But scores of civil litigants, and even Washington State prosecutors who sued, and subsequently settled with, LuLaRoe in 2019, say pyramid scheme would be a more accurate descriptor. With MLMs, it’s often the case that only the people at the very top profit. I could not look away.įew of the people interviewed reported making meaningful money as LuLaRoe retailers many said they worked around the clock to break even at best, or voluntarily took a loss to get out of the business. Over four episodes, the calamity keeps spiraling, uncovering new layers of misogyny and deception the farther down filmmakers dig. We are talking about a racket run on elastic pants in loud, violently colored prints, and the women who sold whole freezers full of breast milk to join it. It’s the same “ Hey, hun” lure MLMs often cast to reel in recruits, but LuLaRich takes us on a dizzying climb up the scaffolding behind the charade. Targeting stay-at-home moms, typically of the white, Christian persuasion, LuLaRoe allegedly sold the same dream to legions of women: You really can Have It All - more time with the kids, more money, more independence - and without ever leaving the house. At first this struck me as an implausible proposition, but I had never heard of LuLaRoe, a multilevel-marketing company that rocketed to a $2 billion valuation on the currency of its exuberantly patterned loungewear. These are a few thoughts that shuffled through my head as I embarked on LuLaRich, a new Amazon docuseries about leggings that ruin lives. They are available at every price point, in a wide range of materials, and for a wide range of functions - working out! going out! making TikToks of your butt! just being comfy! - so what would my hook even be? But maybe this inability to think outside my own couch is why I will never get ahead in scamming. Pretty much every major retailer sells leggings. They would sit somewhere between protein powder and skin care in the “market saturated” section. If, hypothetically, I were looking for solid ground on which to build my pyramid scheme, leggings would not be top of list.
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