Even more fun than Hot Dog on a Stick

While Rob and I were doing some shopping over the holidays, I got the sudden urge to satisfy a curiosity. Many times I had passed the store “Hollister” and many times I had seen various versions of teenagers proudly advertising the store’s name on their chests. Clearly, I am not their target demo so I obediently shop at old-fogey stores like Penney’s, Macys, and Nordstrom (thankfully, I have yet to be drawn to Christopher Banks). But, it being the holidays, I figured I had an excuse to venture inside the dark, shuttered teen fortress and see what excitement awaited.

What a ride!! I exited with the exhaustion and thrill of a whip around on Space Mountain. Truly, visiting Hollister was like a ride at Disneyland. If I had to pick the best analogy, I’d say Hollister is the Pirates of the Caribbean of mall offerings: dark, full of sensory input, and a whooshing feeling that creeps up on you. As we passed Suncoast Video, I clapped my hands and pleaded with Rob, “Can we go again? Can we go again??” It wasn’t until we were well past the Piercing Pagoda that the adrenalin glow had worn off.

The entrance of Hollister is designed to look like an island hut, with shutters and fake trees and dim lighting. And mannequins. One was wearing leg warmers (!), forcing an uncomfortable flash-ba-dance to 1983. The other was wearing jeans. That’s it. No shirt. A bare-chested, half-dressed mannequin is either a naively missed advertising opportunity or marketing genius; I haven’t decided which.

Inside, the store had little rooms, much like a house. Within each room were comfy-looking leather chairs and couches. It gave a cozy, hutty, Pottery-Barn-in-the-Bahamas feel, although nobody was lounging. One side of the house was the "Dudes" side; the other was the "Bettys" side. We unknowlingly entered through the Dudes door.

The music was unfamiliar and very loud and the lighting was very dim. Merchandise and furniture were staggered, requiring us to zig-zag from room to room. It sort of felt like being inside a pinball machine.

It quickly became apparent that Rob and I were invisible. We were too old, too uncool, too grey to be noticed by any of the target shoppers. We might as well been furniture. Frankly, I’m surprised a teen didn’t try to rest her Starbucks mocha on my head as she tried on a sweatshirt.

I’d guess at least half of the merchandise in the store had the name “Hollister” on it. T-shirts, hats, sweatshirts, shorts, cologne. The minimum value of the name “Hollister” is $20, judging from the Clearance price of flimsy flip-flops bearing the Hollister brand. Most amusing to me, though, were the shirts that said “Hollister Southern California.” Southern California?? Yes, Hollister is a town in California, but it is no where NEAR the southern part. No, Hollister is actually a dusty cow town in the central part of the state, miles and miles away from any beach, surf board, palm tree, or plastic surgeon. From my experience there, Hollister the town is waaaay less cool than the store that bears its name. But what do I know? I'm hardly a merchant of teen cool.

To round out the efforts to create a brand culture, up near the cash register were magazines. One called “Slap” caught my eye. I was too frightened to venture closer to figure out what the topic was. There weren’t any familiar titles as I quickly scanned the rack. Apparently “People” isn’t as hip as I thought. I didn’t notice if there was a "Hollister, The Magazine." If there isn't, they need to fire their Marketing Director.

Upon reflection, Hollister stores are a brilliant example of brand creation. Yeah, yeah, I'm geeky. But what a thrill it was to experience such unabashed target marketing. Still recovering, I exclaimed to Rob near Victoria's Secret that the only thing missing was a Tiki Room. Of course, no Hollister shopper would deign to enter THAT hut.