The American Apparel Type

If you’re broke and looking for a job, American Apparel seemed doable. The pay was probably okay, the staff discount on basics was a perk, and they were hiring. But Dov Charney had very specific requirements for what his employees needed to look like.

The list of prohibited things read like a joke. No visible tattoos, no piercings, no silver jewelry, no full beards, no goatees, no sideburns. No hats, no colored contacts, no dyed hair, no makeup, no false nails, no lip gloss. No Chucks, Vans, flip-flops, boots, or sneakers—basically no real shoes. No earplugs, no earrings over a certain size, no bracelets, necklaces, cuffs, or bands. If you actually tried to find a human being who met every single requirement, you’d be describing something that doesn’t exist.

The irony was sharp. American Apparel’s entire brand was about youth, sex, individualism, and self-expression. But the people selling the clothes had to be blank slates. Neutral. Generic enough that they didn’t distract from the product. It was like they wanted employees who were less like people and more like hangers.

If you weren’t sure whether you qualified, you could send in a photo. They’d judge it. Tell you yes or no. And if you were on the fence—not conventionally attractive enough, or too tattooed, or too anything—you already knew the answer. There was something cruel about building that gatekeeping into the hiring process. Making people submit their faces for approval.

I didn’t bother.