There is a store – a women’s fashion boutique – in my neck of the woods, where I would happily drop a small fortune on a regular basis because they have lovely clothes, if it weren’t for their staff. I almost always end up parking in front of the shop because it’s near the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, and I am almost always tempted to pop in to look through the racks, but I remind myself that the store clerks jump on you like hyenas on a zebra as soon as you walk in, and so usually refrain. Yesterday, however, I gave in. I needed a white T-shirt, and they carry a good brand, AND they were having a sale, and anyway. In I walked, and was immediately assaulted by an overdressed twentysomething ninny who followed me around the store: “Oh I LOVE your hair. Where did you get it done? That colour would look fabulous on you! Are you looking for something for a special occasion? No? We have gorgeous spring collections just in! I think THIS would look great on you! Where DID you get your boots? Would you like me to start a room for you?”
The room, which she finally bulldozed me into, is a closet with – wait for it – no mirror. I hate these change rooms. They are of course designed to force you out into the open, where the sales clerk is waiting to pounce. I tried on two dresses, neither of which I liked, but you would have thought I was Jackie Kennedy come back to life to hear the salesgirl gush. I tried giving her the silent treatment, then a couple of icy stares, then finally asked her to leave me alone. I did it nicely, I thought, but she moved so swiftly from obsequiousness to anger she made my head spin: “Certainly. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll just take those dresses from you, since they’re not to your liking. Unless you need a LARGER size, which I think you do. And don’t forget to check out our SALE rack at the back. You might find something more within your budget over there.”
Alrighty then. For a brief moment, I contemplated trying everything on in the store, leaving it in a heap on the floor, and walking out empty handed, but that would be a hollow victory, and take too much time. I also briefly considered kicking her in the butt, but that’s illegal, and would wreck my shoeshine. So what I did was this: I bought the T-shirt I came in to buy, I went home, and now I’m blogging about the bitch. There now. Much better.