The Hidden Cost of Cheap Shoes

I ended up spending 35% more on my cheap shoes.

If you have any tips or tricks to make cheap shoes work…tell us all! Ps. Stay tuned for the next #NEVERWORNS.

My precious $35 shoes!

The other day, I was hobbling towards the Q train in a really great pair of shoes that I scored for only $35. Or maybe I was limping. Either way, it was a classic “beauty is pain” moment as I was suffering in gorgeous kitten heel mules. Lavishly embellished with tiny beads and sequins. A beautiful shape that gave the foot a slender silhouette. A violent tip that acted as my bitchy compass, injecting blunt-force purpose into my walk; some militant direction. And there was that snappy one-inch heel. Everything about the shoe was delicious, even the story of how I procured them: a tchotchke Narnia in Chinatown. And I repeat: Only $35! Total Instagram fodder. An annoying, viral TikTok spill! The type of day-to-night shoe that makes someone go “wow, I wish I had an affiliate link to that.” Essentially, I had the holy grail of New York hot girl heels at my toe-tips. 

Except I couldn’t walk in these heels. These are “two-block shoes” or rather, shoes that can only be worn for two blocks. The type of footwear that breaks five minutes after someone asks you “where did you get those?” I’m not lying: The protective taps dislodged within a few hours after I wore my first pair. (Yes, there are multiple pairs involved). Sure, I thought I could live with tapless pretty $35 shoes until I heard the searing clacking sound of the plastic heel. Every raw-dogged step I took echoed in the subway halls; a grating admission of cheapness. If it couldn’t get worse, a few days later, the upper tore from the sole. At one point, my precious pinky toe was protruding from the shoe, grazing a MRSA-crawling sidewalk. 

Band-aid accessory.

After the cloth upper broke from the sole mid-strut, I told myself the first pair was faulty. The next pair won’t be like that. So I went back to the Chinatown trove shop and I bought the same cream pair. But then I had the same issue. Within hours, the taps fell off, and then the insole started to disintegrate, covering my foot in beige flakes. But like a woman who can’t get enough of a good-looking but, like, really bad boyfriend, I returned roughly a year later and purchased a black iteration. As if this time would be any different. 

And it wasn’t any different—the shoes were still cheap and plastic—but how could I pass them up? They were so beautiful and fun. They reminded me of the Manolo (or Fendi!) mules from the early ‘00s meticulously embroidered with floral designs. 

Honestly so beautiful…size 9.

And besides, my Manolo lookalikes were $35 opposed to $700. (Then again, these were $35 shoes that only lasted two hours. Where are my cost-per-wear mathematicians out here?)

My cobbler, Alex, was the solution. First, he resoled them with girthy Vibram rubber. That job set me back about $60 for a full resole but there was no more cacophony of shame whenever I walked. The next time I stepped out, I realized I was sliding out of the mules with every step. At first, I thought I could live with the occasional inelegant slip until I found myself teetering on the cane-thin section at the Union Square subway platform where passengers transfer between the N,Q, R, W and L trains; the flossy path that can fit only one person as the subway barrels by an inch away. Screw inelegance! What if I fell from that ledge? And landed in the train tracks? How pathetic, dying at the mercy of $35! So, I dropped $20 and had Alex implant new insoles, now fully Frankensteining my footwear.

But the pain of the mules didn’t stop at insoles. Mules are generally evil; the ultimate phalangeal assault against womankind; a Sisyphean grind on the sensitive thin skin of the toe tops. The subtle rubbing effects of the mule makes this strain of foot destruction far more sinister than the duh discomfort of stilettos. The pain of stilettos is expected while mules gradually skin the most small, tender, and vulnerable part of the foot. A person can be perfectly healthy but once a ruby red blister ever-so-slightly rears itself, they become immobile. I imagine this sensation is the equivalent of being kicked in the balls but like, while doing the hora at a wedding or, like, standing at some horrible gala…for hours. Torture!

My secret against the terrorizing mule-grind were protective toe socks that only cover a front half portion of the foot. They were $10 and completely saved my feet, but if there is something that is guaranteed to give you an existential crisis, it’s Amazon Priming toe condoms.

Toe “pouches”

This past week, I sat down and calculated the actual cost of the fixer-upper shoe. There was $35 for the initial shoe. Then $60 for the full resole. Then $20 for the insole. There are the thick Kevlar foot condoms for $9.99. (The embarrassment with that purchase? Priceless!) There are also the six Bandaids. (I did not calculate those). Ultimately, my one pair of cheap pretty shoes cost me roughly $125. (That’s not to mention the second refurbished pair or the first pair that went kaput). That’s a 35.7% increase to the original price. 

I’m not the only one who has cheap shoe issues. I went into the Substack chat and casually asked if anyone has spent loads of moolah on keeping cheap shoes alive.

Irene Kim (김애린)

mentioned she bought a pair of Zara leather boots with plastic (!) soles but then got them resoled, a move that paid off. “I’ve been wearing them for 5 years!” Other people wrote in that they spent more in repairs and augmentations on good-quality but discounted shoes; new and vintage. Sometimes it paid off, too. Sometimes, it didn’t. One user wrote: “Yesterday, I took a new pair of very pretty shoes bought at 50% off to the cobbler to ask his advice for how to make them fit a bit better. He said, ‘you want to make this work because you got them on sale, but you should send them back. Shoes should fit right when you get them.’ It was a real Neverworns moment. So, I’m sending them back.” Oy!

I lucked out with my footwear upgrades. Still, I can’t get over that it took me three pairs of $35 shoes to get this process right. Plus, these were only surface-level documented costs. There are the emotional pangs, too! The minutes lost by slow walking, the shame that comes with the pain of cheap shoes, and the time I’ve taken to write this article. 

If it’s cheap, you’re going to pay one way or another. Hobble along now—and don’t forget the toe condoms.

Stay tuned for the next episode of #NEVERWORNS. Watch the last one below.