Rachel Zoe is stylishly soulless. Her seven-episode Bravo reality show, The Rachel Zoe Project, which concluded last Tuesday, offers a glimpse into her relentlessly superficial world. A world in which her small frame practically sinks in a coupling of her own making: aggressive work ethic and excessive materialism. But Zoe proves herself to be more than an older Hills co-star; she is an American hero! A bonafide careerist who spared no moral expense in becoming the exact person she wanted to be, pulling it all off in a fur vest with a bedroom-eyed half-smile. Explanation for Zoe as a manifestation of the American Dream, after the jump.

Zoe may have made a name for herself by dressing the Salvation Army starlets of the early ‘00s (Nicole Richie, Mischa Barton, et. al.) all clavicles and tabloid fodder, but she has little in common with them, save the shoes and dresses. She prioritizes her work to such an extent that it’s even believable when she cries over negative press—anything that detracts from her status as a top-notch stylist deals her an emotional blow. This social butterfly has no qualms with fame as a byproduct of her success, but she doesn’t have the time to be famous for being famous, seeming too mature and self-aware to crave that sort of notoriety.

Mature? Self-aware? Sure, this is a woman who has perhaps the world’s most frivolous livelihood: she is a professional good dresser. But Zoe deviates from the paradigm of both The Blonde and The Powerful Female Boss, largely thanks to her equally fascinating co-stars. Her adoring, endearing husband Rodger, who she calls “the love of her life, aside from fashion” is so unseemly in her surface-level world that their ten-year marriage seems real and commendable, unlike the wives of Dr. 90210.

And instead of The Devil Wears Prada-inspired intimidated assistants, Brad and Taylor are self-important and hilarious characters who are both her friends and respected co-workers, despite discrepancies in both age and experience. B. & T. are also atypical L.A. types in their own right: Taylor, the girl with a hair always out of place and a New Yorker’s cynicism; Brad, the over-preppy, semi-conservative and satirical gay man. (Brad, if you’re reading this, call me!) When Zoe becomes the level-headed mediator in Brad and Taylor’s battles, she shows that she is more than just another gossip girl. At one point, when Brad breaks down into tears after failing to provide Cameron Diaz with shoe inserts for a pair of Louis Vuittons, Zoe even admits, “It’s not that bad—it’s clothes, we’re not saving lives.”

But such wisdom is often lost even on Zoe herself, who swings from self-made stylista to an almost unsettling portrait of American materialism. In one episode, Zoe has a nervous breakdown of her own, after skipping out on her uncle’s funeral in favor of working a photoshoot. A flamboyant makeup artist wipes Zoe’s tears as she sips on a diet cola. Through her sniffles, she says “I just feel like my whole life, just everything’s so fucked up. I don’t know what the fuck my dreams are. I had dreams. Diane Von Furstenberg says to me, ‘You’ve become the woman that you wanted to be,’ and I was like ‘I did? ‘Cause I don’t fucking know that.”

Ah, she drops fashion designer’s names even in the midst of metaphysical crises. But, of course, it seems that the tear-stained mess she sees looking back at her in the mirror, glamorous even as streaks of eyeliner are wiped from her face, is indeed the woman Zoe always wanted to be, making her misery all the more fascinating.

At the end of each episode, Zoe always regains her sense of superficial self, having averted all crises—for she is actually good at what she does, in her flowing, uniquely chic and PETA-angering attire. And in those moments, as Zoe lifts a glass of champagne to her pursed lips, awash in her fully realized dreams of kidney pools and vintage sports cars, she becomes more than a stylist. She is indeed, for better or worse, successfully living the classic California dream, and is all the more incendiary for that. Just don’t ask her for dinner plans during fucking fashion week.