After doing a great deal of research, I decided to visit two factories with my new buddy passes—one that produced fabrics and one that created T-shirts.
I arrived in sunny Los Angeles and began my descent into the vibrant Fashion District, where any shopping addict can buy directly from wholesale vendors and manufacturers. Pop hits blasted through storefront stereos to get shoppers’ blood pumping, which created an electrifying energy among the busy buyers. Store owners stood outside their shops trying to snatch the attention of tourists or any potential customer who happened to be passing by. They sold everything from racks of hats, sunglasses, and shoes to colorful wigs and fake eyelashes. The crowded streets were packed with people carrying black plastic bags so full they were ready to burst.
As I stood in the middle of the glorious, colorful mess, the size and scale of the place felt overwhelming, especially when I had no clue where to go. I got lost in the rainbow of fabrics for hours. LA’s Fashion District is home to the largest selection of textiles in the country—from exotic silks to novelty fabrics, sold on long cardboard rolls or just in piles on the floor. It’s a place where negotiating is not only acceptable, but welcomed. I was in a magical forest of fabrics.
I made my way to the factory. Boom! Boom! Boom! The sounds of the factory machines seemed to pierce my eardrums. Yards upon yards of colorful thread appeared on cardboard combs. The machines looked like submarines, twisting, turning, and blowing on the materials. The thread they use is so fine that it’s impossible to work with by hand, so workers use compressed air guns to meticulously fire it directly into the knitting machines. Large crates filled to the brim with thread were maneuvered around the space, waiting to be thrown into the next machine.
The factory produced immense amounts of fabric each year. I could hardly imagine all the fantastic T-shirts that I could make. I was blown away as I walked past the factory employees in their surgical masks and the various large machines performing each step of the fabric production process, their clunks vibrating through the floors. It reminded me of Baba’s leather factory, except that he wasn’t there to kick me out. Workers operated at lightning speed. They looked like Olympic champions, and each worker had clearly mastered his or her craft.
I shook hands with a factory sales representative, who gave me a thorough tour and showed me the cutting, pattern, printing, packaging, and shipping rooms. This was my chance to witness firsthand how the process worked, step-by-step. I was deep in the trenches of the manufacturing business, and it was like going from black-and-white to Technicolor. I was mesmerized. I was also in the big leagues now, which meant I needed to brace myself for a large quote.
All I needed to do was email the design of the T-shirt in a PDF version with the graphics and specifications, and voilà! That sounded easy enough! But the financial reality of this business slapped me in the face. After discussing the factory’s pricing and minimum orders—at least one thousand per every size and style—I had to conclude that it wouldn’t make financial sense to move forward. I guess I wasn’t quite ready after all. It was hard to fight back my disappointment. How could I sell one thousand T-shirts?
On the plane ride back to DC, I wondered how other independent designers dealt with production. I needed to look into different manufacturing options, but the only alternative that would offer better deals was to work with factories abroad. I had my work cut out for me to research that, but God never gives you something you can’t handle.
Eric put me in touch with Dana, a factory production manager who worked in Lima, Peru, which is a known destination for manufacturing. I didn’t gather much information before I received my buddy passes. All I needed to know was that the factories she worked with were known for producing high-quality T-shirts and executing beautiful print work.
Maman didn’t take the news of my trip lightly. She was convinced I was going to get kidnapped and never return. Truth be told, I was a bit nervous to travel there alone too. I had heard stories about kidnappings and robberies, which didn’t help, especially since I was planning on spending my time in industrial locations. As a twenty-one-year-old Iranian girl who didn’t speak a lick of Spanish, I was definitely embracing the concept of “fearless.”
Bienvenida al Peru! When my plane landed, Dana was waiting to greet me at the airport. She was a short, chubby woman, with a black pixie cut, who loved to talk. Dana didn’t speak English very well, which worried me, but it was comforting to have someone waiting for me at the arrival gate. I got into her old burgundy pickup truck and watched the sun set beneath the horizon as we made our way to the hotel. The run-down, hectic city flashed past the car windows, dotted with numerous casinos. I was there for a different kind of gamble though. Hopefully my luck would change, and I would leave Peru a winner. Beyond the grit and grime of the urban center, the backdrop of the mountains and water was absolutely breathtaking.
The following morning, I got a much better impression of life around Lima. The people walking around the bustling streets of the city, which is nearing nine million in population, were from a blend of backgrounds—Spanish, Italian, German, and neighboring South American countries—that had inhabited the land for centuries. Modern skyscrapers mingled with colonial residences and mud houses. The style of architecture depended on which neighborhood we were in. The districts, as Peruvians called them, were separated by a clear class divide. The wealthier districts were situated on the coastline, whereas the poorer ones were farther toward the mountains.
Dana took me to different factories to give me a well-rounded idea of how they operated. Once again, I was reminded of the factories Baba owned in Iran. Their workers were just as friendly and hospitable. Upon entering, they greeted me with hot tea and other Peruvian beverages. Men smoked cigarettes while they worked, just like Baba and his friends. The rigid rules of corporate America clearly didn’t exist there. Although I was far away, I felt very close to home, which I took as a good sign about my prospects.
We visited three factories. The first two required that I order very large quantities. It was LA all over again. Dana had originally promised that these factories offered low-quantity production, but to her that meant orders of two or three hundred, not twenty or thirty.
The last manufacturer we visited was the smallest of the three, measuring the same size as a typical suburban two-bedroom home. I wasn’t impressed with the facility, but I was hoping they could craft what I needed. The owner was much more flexible with his minimum order requirements and willing to create my patterns and samples for a good deal. I could still make a small profit after manufacturing, shipping, and customs costs. Any seasoned businessperson wouldn’t have accepted such a small margin of profit, but in my mind—a small profit was still a profit.
My prayers had finally been answered. I not only felt like I had grasped the manufacturing process, but I found a way to produce my line quickly and efficiently while offering great quality. I had to travel to South America to find it, but I loved the small factory and the warm family who worked in it. I couldn’t wait to see my final products and develop our ongoing business relationship.
A few weeks after my trip to Peru, disaster stuck. The factory owner passed away, and his family was taking time off to grieve. They couldn’t start working on my line for another few months, at the very least. They were already behind on orders from many other brands. I was very saddened for the lovely family who had been unbelievably hospitable and accommodating to me.
But still, this setback landed me back at square one. I continued to research factories and wasn’t able to find a facility that could help me get started. I didn’t know what else to do.
My friend Faisal suggested that I travel with him to Amman, Jordan, to visit factories there. I had met Faisal through mutual friends and, conveniently, he had solid connections with many Jordanian factories. His mother owned a very popular boutique in Amman. It was an in worth exploring. It didn’t matter that it was so soon after my Peruvian setback. I was ready to travel to the moon and back to find a manufacturer.
Faisal and his mother put me in touch with Raj, a production manager. I sent Raj a few of my designs and within a few days, I received the green light. Once again, I was on a long plane ride into the unknown. As they say, the world is a book and those who don’t travel only read one page.
Amman was a beautiful city made up of cream-colored buildings and desert sand. All the buildings seemed to be the same short height, and the city felt like a land that time forgot. If I wore a red shirt, I would look like the target in a bullfight. Among the ancient monochromatic buildings were more modern buildings, but according to municipal law, all buildings must be faced with local stones. This rule created a rather odd uniformity, yet a comforting continuity in the city.
The call to prayer, which echoed from the mosques’ minarets, still gave me chills. It was a strange mix of emotions. It reminded me of waiting in line to be lashed in prison, but it also brought back memories of my childhood and walking home from school in my uniform in Tehran. God, I had missed the Middle East.
While Amman is quite liberal compared to some of its neighboring countries, I still needed to be cautious in my outfit choices. Most people who roamed the streets were conservative. Of course, Western women are held to a different, more tolerant standard, but the more liberal locals only appeared at chic restaurants, clubs, and house parties. It had been such a long time since I’d had to worry about my appearance being offensive or disrespectful. I had gotten so used to wearing what I wanted all the time. Having to think about that again reminded me of how much freedom I now had. It was that simple joy that I needed to remember not to take for granted.
Every day, we drove an hour outside Amman on extensive, dusty highways to visit factories. Sidewalks and curbs didn’t exist. By the end of the trip, we had visited half a dozen factories. None of them honored the initial quotes they had given me or anything else we had agreed upon in our preliminary conversations, before I’d flown halfway around the world. Talk about a curveball.
Omar, Faisal’s father, accompanied us to the factory meetings. He was an older, witty man with a calm spirit. He warned me that I wouldn’t be taken seriously because I was a very young girl and said that his presence would get us better deals. He was right! I was a woman in a man’s world. If you thought the glass ceiling in the United States was bad, it’s like societal discrimination against women was on steroids in Jordan. We aren’t just talking about men thinking little of my company’s finances or my business abilities—they completely disregarded my presence in the meetings. They only addressed Omar (unless they wanted to ask me my age). I was treated like an incompetent child. How could I expect to foster a business relationship if these manufacturers couldn’t look past my age and gender? Omar reassured me that I shouldn’t take it personally because culturally, they were used to dealing with men. Theirs was exactly the stereotype I was hoping to break.
With that, I left yet another country feeling completely helpless. There wasn’t a next step. I had used up all the money, and my T-shirt line was halted. And that is how you lose $20,000 in 120 days! Did I learn a lot? Yes. Did I figure out who I couldn’t work with? Yes. Did I make many connections? Yes. Did I find a facility to produce my line? Yes. Eventually. But I wish someone had given me a step-by-step guide on the process of manufacturing for an independent designer.
I’d had absolutely no experience and no guidance on how to start a clothing line. I did it all backward. I think Eric wanted me to learn as I went along, and then learn from my mistakes. I told him exactly what happened, all the bumps and bruises, and his only response was, “What’s your next move?”
I felt like I had failed Eric and myself, but my passion for fashion didn’t die. I was given the opportunity to witness the inner workings of the fashion industry. Being behind-the-scenes of the most glamorous industry in the world couldn’t have been more unglamorous, but that didn’t stop me. Traveling to those factories made me recognize that the people who made my clothing were an essential part of my business, almost as much as I was. It wasn’t about getting the most for the cheapest price but about finding someone who excelled at the craft and could create exceptional pieces. Learning about the process of making clothing excited me. I remained fascinated and craved more knowledge with each passing day.
Fashion isn’t just about the perfect photo on the cover of Vogue, the awe-inspiring fashion shows during fashion week, or the breathlessly sleek people in head-to-toe designer clothing. Fashion is also about the brilliance behind creation and craftsmanship. The designers who got famous on a reality show or by having famous billionaire parents didn’t interest me. I wanted to know more about those who started their brands from scratch and were now leaders in this multibillion-dollar industry. Because if they could do it, then so could I. It became my mission to figure out how they became successful and how I would too.