It’s nothing like when my daughters have piano lessons at a studio down the street that is frequented by home schoolers or Jesus freaks from the local unaccredited Christian fanatic educational institution. When I have to wait there, I am surrounded by breeders with a minimum of four children, none of which they attempt to control, and it’s the same people every week. At guitar, you never know who will walk through the door, which lends an air of mystery to the whole experience. Plus, the waiting area is too small for large families, and they teach, gasp, rock music, so it’s not the same crowd at all.
One day, as I sat there with my younger daughter listening
to the teen play the same chord over and over in the other room, the door burst open and in
strode a young man wearing a shirt and tie, full of purpose. He shouted, “Hey,
man” to the guy working behind the counter, then turned to where we sat and
apologized to us for startling us. We were startled, honestly; it was
so peaceful before he rushed into the room with such drama. I assumed he was
friends with the guy behind the counter because his greeting seemed so personal
somehow, as if the salesman had been waiting to see him all day.
He walked up to the counter and said, “Hey, man, do you know
anyone who likes makeup?”
That wasn’t what I expected at all.
The guy behind the counter is new to the guitar shop, and
clearly he has had no previous experience, both with working retail and with
interacting with people. He doesn’t know how to do a credit card sale. He doesn’t
know where they keep the guitar stands. And he doesn’t know how to answer the
phone. He is definitely not trained on how to deal with make-up salesmen. He wore a blank expression on his face, but
with his head tilted just enough to indicate his confusion, much like a puppy.
“Um, my mom, I guess?” He answered the question with a
question. He wasn’t really sure his mom liked makeup, but she was the only
woman he knew.“Well, listen,” the salesman said. “I have an incredible deal to offer you on a makeup kit. It’s got everything you need right in one convenient set up.”
My daughter and I sat there, mesmerized. I couldn’t believe
the balls on this salesman. Who just walks into a store and tries to sell stuff
to the guy behind the counter, who is, in fact, also there to do sales? Even
odder, who walks into a guitar store and tries to sell make-up to an adolescent
boy? Why didn’t the kid tell him no, or, better yet, try to sell him a guitar?
He continued on with his make-up spiel, about how useful and
affordable it was, but it was clear he lost his audience, if he ever actually
had it. The counter boy just stared at him, confused. The odd part is that I was the only woman there,
but the salesman never addressed me, only the teenage boy. Maybe he is
authorized to sell make up to the employee of a retail establishment but not
the other customers there.
When the salesman finished, he asked If the teenage boy
might be interested in buying the kit for his mom, at which point the boy
answered, “Um, not really?” like he wasn’t really sure but he should probably
say no.
“Hey, no hard feelings, man,” the salesmen said. “Maybe not
today.” And he flew back out, much as he did when he came in, like a blonde
tornado.
We sat there in the silence, until the boy behind the
counter said, “Well, that was random.”
Indeed, it was. It was one of those “did that just happen?”
moments, one that leaves you more puzzled than amused. He certainly didn’t look
like the Avon lady or Mary Kay. Who hires a twenty something straight blond man
to sell make-up door to door? He never even indicated the brand of cosmetics,
so maybe the whole thing was a ruse, but why? And why didn’t he try to sell it
to me? Did I already look so good I didn’t need any make-up, or was I a lost
cause that even his product, while fabulous and a must-have, couldn’t fix?
Little did he know, he lost two sales that day. Not that I would have bought his crap. But still, it feels good sometimes just to be asked.
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