We don't Build Stores. We Build Stories.

This past weekend, we closed our LA flagship store after 18 years. How did it last so long and why did it end so soon?

It’s been an emotional week since we announced the closure of our Los Angeles flagship store. We’ve fielded a spectrum of responses, from surprise to sadness to congratulations (and the occasional reply I’ll never understand: “Why?” (Um, why do you think? Because we were making too much money?)).

Big news like this can reveal more about others than the subject themselves. It’s a Rorschach test in that way, a mirror. For some, the announcement provoked a discussion of streetwear’s health. For others, it’s the end of innocence, a rude awakening as to how distant objects appear in the rearview mirror.

[Our first official office / clubhouse / studio / warehouse, circa 2006]

We’ve been in LA’s Fairfax District, on Rosewood Ave., for 20 years now and have raised a generation of rebels, outsiders, and nonconformists. Many of us remain Lost Boys, frozen in time when sneaker collecting was sparkling, street culture was transitioning to screen culture, and Streetwear left a mark. Our first flagship was born in the Blog Era of 2-way pagers, skinny jeans, and white girl rappers in shutter shades. It was on these streets that The Hundreds’ block parties united the streetwear pantheon, world-class skateboarders and artists were cast, and Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All coalesced.

[The night before opening, February, 2007]

A few years ago, the founder of one of the most popular streetwear archive Instagram pages attended one of our parties. I saw him standing in The Hundreds’ doorway, taking in the block: the honking around the near-collisions in the intersection, the clack-clack of polyurethane wheels rolling down the cement, the smell of sweet smoke interlaced with hot chicken sandwich grease.

“When was the last time you were here?,” I asked him.

“Never. This is my first time,” he declared unapologetically.

“To our store?”

“To Fairfax.”

“Seriously?,” I asked. I was incredulous. This guy’s brand is regarded as one of the most credible voices of street fashion! To this day, authentic designers co-sign him with high-profile collaborations. But he’d never stepped foot in the epicenter of 2000s streetwear.

“What happened here?,” he trailed off into the ether.

I didn’t bother. Nothing about his demeanor told me he was interested in learning.

It was then that I knew something had fundamentally changed in the culture. We can blame the pandemic for enervating Fairfax. Someone blamed Supreme’s departure as the death blow (I disagree). Most recently, the fires are the clear culprit. But the real answer is that Fairfax hasn’t felt the same in years, even before COVID. Virgil once said that streetwear didn’t age well, and I took offense to that. But Fairfax had clearly let itself go since its tanned, sinewy youth. There was no debate.

We all know why people don’t visit physical retail stores as much anymore. Amazon is convenient. The Internet warehouses have available inventory. Brands offer more affordable prices when you buy from them direct. But on Fairfax, the limited-edition sneaker drops were just an excuse. These guys (and they were mostly young men) were shopping for friends (whether they’d admit it or not). Come for the clothing, stay for the culture, leave with a community…

At some point in the last several years, as we lost the boundary between our lives and our phones, Streetwear started conflating Comments with Community. Many of the gossipy streetwear archives and news pages lure engagement through rage bait and provocative headlines. There is little dialogue or thoughtful discourse below the fold. There’s only heckling and hate, being thrown at each other like mud and monkey shit.

Back on Rosewood Ave., The Hundreds’ home for the last two decades, even if a debate unfurled into a loud argument, it’d be settled on the asphalt with a handshake or a closed fist. But before it got there, most disagreements would’ve been negotiated and settled through earnest conversation. There was a code of conduct on Fairfax and Rosewood. People may have beefed, but they looked each other in the eye when they did it. And we knew that the next afternoon, we’d have to face each other again. And the day after that. And so on. There was accountability and there was fraternity.

Now that The Hundreds has left Fairfax, we close the door on a chapter of LA history behind us (Tyler’s GOLF store will thrive down on the next block, as will Canter’s Deli. These are destination retail fronts that have their own endemic following). We held out for as long as we could, hopeful that Fairfax would heal. Time and again, we couldn’t bring ourselves to end the lease, knowing that we wouldn’t be closing a store, but a genre. “It’s a good look to have a store here,” we’d tell ourselves. “It’s a marketing expense.”

Even though we were making rent, we had to face a cutting reality. Up and down the boulevard, once-flashy signage has been slapped with “For Lease” placards and commercial realtor numbers. The skateboards have stopped, the restaurants have shuttered. The kids would rather queue for their streetwear online, not in line. We asked ourselves, “Does it hurt us more than help to be on this corner? If we were to open The Hundreds today, in 2025, would we choose to set up shop here?”

Our friend Jared said it best: “Fairfax doesn’t deserve The Hundreds.” When, for so long, it was the other way around. We believed a brand had to earn their right to be here. When a Fairfax address used to be the gold standard, a blue checkmark, a black card. When pioneers from around the world made the pilgrimage to see and be seen and settle. O, Pioneers!

Friends ask if we’re okay. I’m quietly very happy, very grateful. We lived a full life here. We built it and they came in droves and generations. And nobody can say we didn’t finish what we’d started. Fairfax provided fertile soil for The Hundreds and a class of streetwear brands to root their foundation. Sometimes I feel like we’re the fashion equivalent of music artists who got in right before Napster and streaming. We were able to cultivate a company organically because of this neighborhood and the dreamers that filled it. Will I miss Fairfax? Not really. Will I miss what it meant? Absolutely.

In J.M. Barrie’s classic, Peter Pan, magic prevails as long as you don’t grow up. Early in our brand, I likened ourselves to the Lost Boys, Peter’s band of mischief-makers who resist age and prolong the imaginary. I say this now as I sift through memories of crew that graduated into their own. Some became rockstars, others turned into our highest competitors. Some trajectories were interrupted, their runways abbreviated by fast takeoffs. The hardest part of closing the store was accepting that two decades of our lives have slipped through our fingers. Garage brands became global businesses, rappers became famous, kids had kids. Did we outgrow Fairfax or did Fairfax outgrow the fantasy?

The cold truth. It’s not that we grew up. It’s that we grew apart. But I still believe that Fairfax will find its way again. It might not be us out there, spelunking for treasure, but a new set of Goonies and Wanderers and Lost Boys. Maybe it’ll be here in Los Angeles or across the world. Maybe it’ll be in 5 months or 5 years. But the magic is always there, waiting.

You just have to show up. And you have to go together.