In the hushed, perfumed aisles of a high-end department store, there exists a silent war. It is not fought between competing brands, nor between cashmere and silk. It is fought between the trained professional armed with a measuring tape and the unpredictable, often chaotic, nature of the human condition.
The nightmare is not the customer who yells. It is not the customer who cries. It is the customer who, in a fit of desperate cognitive dissonance, looks at the six-foot-two salesman and says:
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Having a backup seamstress on call, or a hidden inventory stash. The Lingerie Salesman S Worst Nightmare
And the salesman will close the store. He will fold the 34Bs back into their drawers. He will look at the measuring tape coiled on the counter.
This scenario inevitably ends with the recipient returning to the store days later to exchange the impractical garment for comfortable loungewear. The Infinite Fitting Room
Lingerie stores are a magnet for couples, but not all shopping trips are romantic. Salesmen frequently find themselves acting as unpaid, highly uncomfortable relationship counselors. In the hushed, perfumed aisles of a high-end
Then proceed.
Many consumers believe a D or DD cup is the absolute limit of human anatomy. They will aggressively refuse to try on a realistic G or H cup, viewing the letter as a negative judgment on their body.
For the next forty-five minutes, I become her personal sherpa through the Himalayas of hosiery. We try the “Whisper Mesh” collection. Too sheer. We try the “Satin Petal” line. Too shiny. We try the “Everyday Elegance” cotton blend. Too boring. We try a bralette. Not enough support. We try a full-coverage underwire. Too much like her grandmother’s. The nightmare is not the customer who yells
We do not have it in emerald. We have it in black, red, and a shade called “Desert Bloom” that looks like beige with a bad attitude. I tell her this. She sighs like I’ve just informed her that her favorite nephew has been arrested for smuggling.
The retail floor of a luxury lingerie boutique appears serene. Soft jazz plays in the background. Silk robes drape elegantly over velvet hangers. The air smells lightly of lavender and vanilla.
She shows him her phone. The purchase was 47 days ago. The return window closed 17 days ago. The bra has clearly been worn for three weeks of sweaty commutes and slept in during a flu.
The salesman’s nightmare begins when a customer insists they have worn a specific size for twenty years, despite clear visual evidence that the garment is digging in or gaping.
That could be funny but maybe too risqué. Keep it PG-13.