It's as if you grow dumb simply by entering the store. It's the sales. That's what does it. It's the promise of half priced items that weren't worth the full price to begin with. That gets to you. It messes with your head and makes you an irrational creature who I'd hope would have manners and common sense and maybe the slightest bit of respect under different circumstances. It's like kindergarten all over again.
You like to skip lines and then pretend as if you can't hear me yelling or see me frantically motioning until finally it becomes obvious that yes, I'm looking at YOU and pointing to the back of the line. It's that neatly organized row of twenty or so people waiting patiently while clutching huge piles of clothing. Those are other customers, not mannequins. Don't play dumb.
You refuse to play well with others. You pick fights with me over prices that I have no power to change. You pick fights with other women for picking up the last XS baby blue tank top from the shelf. When I tell you that you can take no more than five items into the dressing room, you question me. Am I absolutely sure that it's only five? Well, it's not like I work here or anything.
You are messy and destructive and rude. You bring your Venti Caramel Macchiatos into the store just to leave them hidden quite carefully behind piles of clothes in such a way that ensures that I won't find them until you are long gone. You love to pick up ten different shirts from ten different locations, decide not to buy anything, and leave those shirts all balled up in a corner somewhere.
You have a shorter attention span than the kids you're dragging all over the mall. You ask for items from the back and then disappear so that I not only have to search the back for some obscure piece of clothing, but then I have to search the store for you. This is not a game of hide and seek and if I emerge from the back with the requested item in hand, you better not tell me that you've changed your mind.
You never stop asking questions. Can you get these jeans in a larger size? Why not? Why can't you buy the clothes off the mannequins? Where is a better store? Why is the line so long? Why is the music so loud? Can you see the manager?!
I fold piles of clothes into towers of perfection, edges straight and size stickers aligned. And for what? I do this knowing full well that you will come along to destroy this pile in a matter of minutes. And when you do? I have to be there with a smile on my face and a "Ma'm, may I help you with your size?" to prevent any further damage to the stack of whatever is currently under attack. The answer to that question is usually no.
Here are a few things you should know, now that you can no longer boss me around:
To you and all of the other women out there who tell the salesgirl that you don't need help with a size, please realize that I don't actually care what your size is. I am not here to judge you. I am here to help you because by helping you, I'm mostly helping myself. I can prevent you from messing up the perfectly stacked piles if I carefully remove that shirt from the bottom rather than letting you yank it out. If you still think that it's okay to mess up the pile for the sake of keeping your size a secret, think again. It isn't that difficult to see what size you grab from the pile. If you grab the shirt on the bottom, you're an XL. The middle? A large or a medium. I know the shelf that has the size 7 jeans from the one that has the size 3's. I know this because I fold those jeans at least ten times every shift. It doesn't matter what shelf you grab those jeans off of. I know your size.
When I say, "Because it's store policy", nine times out of ten, it is not store policy. It is something that I made up to get you to fuck off. Because it's store policy sounds legit. Ten times out of ten, it works.
When you come out of your dressing room to pose in front of the mirror and in front of me, I am not jealous because you can afford to buy so many different outfits. I am laughing on the inside, laughing at how horribly wrong a pair of XS shorts look on an XL body.
The customer is not always right and I am not afraid to tell you so. That is a myth that you've been fed all of your life. It's kind of like when your boyfriend tells you, "No honey, you don't look fat in that outfit". He's wrong for saying it and you're wrong for believing it. The next time you convince yourself that the old Customer is Always Right myth gives you the right to boss me around, think again.
Sincerely,
J
J