Toward the end of each season, early in the morning, around 8, you'll see a line start to form outside a small boutique called LF (named after owner Laurie Furst) on Las Olas Boulevard. On end-of-season sale day, at about 9 a.m., the salespeople take a deep breath (betraying both dread and anticipation), brace themselves, and open the door for wolfish shoppers who will inevitably destroy the store in search of bargains on the usually very expensive (dare we say overpriced?) merchandise. The store carries young, fresh styles — all unique because the brands are exclusive to the store (plus a few fashion lines from London and Paris). The first weekend is by invitation-only to customers who have bought something before (afterward, anyone can get what's left); and while not officially recognized, the first day of the sale is an unequivocal holiday for the fashionably inclined youth around these parts. Girls skip school to spend the day rummaging with their moms. They trudge through the bodies, picking off shirts and pants and skirts, which, after an hour, hang limply on the disheveled shelves and racks. The scene takes on a macabre-party vibe, with shoppers resembling vultures as they pick at goods left after a fashion explosion. The little room's air conditioner can't handle the pressure, and sometimes the heat becomes unbearable. But brave girls and moms don't care. After all, beauty is pain, right?

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