I’m working in the fitting room near where we have our bras. My manager refers a lady in her late fifties or early sixties to me and tells me she needs a fitting. I measure her, and she’s on the much smaller side.

Me: “All right! I’ve got your size. What kind of bra are you looking for so I can pull a few options for you?”

Customer: “I need a push-up strapless bra. I have a wedding to go to.”

Me: “Great! That’s exciting! I’ll grab a few options and go from there.”

She comes out of the fitting room after trying on what I brought her.

Customer: “I like none of these.”

Me: “Okay, let’s see what we can do. What didn’t you like about them?”

Customer: *Agitated* “I need more oomph! Much more oomph!”

Due to her age, she doesn’t exactly have the “perkiest of assets,” so I already know this is going to be difficult; you can’t exactly push up nothing.

Me: “All right, well, these are all of our options for strapless with the push-up. They do come with clear straps which sometimes help.”

Customer: “No! What do you not understand about strapless? And why didn’t you give me one of those to try on?”

She points to our other strapless options, but they are not push-up bras.

Me: “Those aren’t push-up, but if you want to try them I can grab some for you to try.”

Customer: “What do you not understand about me wanting more OOMPH?! I need push-up!”

Me: “Of course. Unfortunately, I don’t think we have anything that fits what you’re looking for.”

Customer: “Don’t you have anything that can give me more OOMPH? I need OOMPH!”

This time she adds a gesture implying lifting her breasts up high to accompany her increasing anger.

Me: “The only other option that has more padding, unfortunately, has straps.”

Customer: “Well, that won’t work! Why can’t you get me a strapless that has that much push-up?”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

I try really hard to phrase this correctly.

Me: “These are the bra styles we sell here. We might be able to recommend another store for you that may have what you’re looking for, if that’s of any interest to you.”

Customer: “I don’t understand what is so hard about giving more OOMPH! And why are you making me go to another store? I need more oomph, do you understand?”

I gave my manager the “help me” eyes and she took over. The woman did not find a bra. I was never more thankful for my manager.

I overhear this in the fitting rooms as I’m dealing with a giant mound of customer clothing to put away.

Customer: “Don’t waste time putting those back on the hanger; the girl needs something to do all day.”

In the early 2000s, there was something of a fad where people buy outfits where every part of the outfit matched color — shirt, jacket, pants, even shoes in some cases. So, you’d see guys buying a red shirt to go with a red jacket or red vest, and red pants to match their red shoes. That kind of thing.

One customer came in, and after some wrangling, I’d managed to get a good sale out of him buying one of these “everything matches” outfits. He was pleased with himself, though moderately annoyed that we didn’t have shoes to match. Even so, he got some nice new white sneakers with it, so he left happy. He was a regular, and I struck up a conversation with him about it, as I’d never seen him put so much money down on just one outfit before. He explained that he was heading to Atlanta to see a friend and then hoped to hit up one or two of the clubs. All good.

Curiously, after that, I didn’t see him for a good month, to a month and a half. Normally, he was in there every payday, so I started to wonder.

All is revealed when he finally returns. I strike up a conversation with him, asking how his trip went.

Customer: “Terrible, man, just terrible.”

Me: *Innocently* “Clubs weren’t open or something?”

He shakes his head.

Customer: “Nah, that d*** outfit got me in trouble.”

My curiosity is piqued.

Me: “How so?”

Customer: “Got me put in jail. Took them two days to figure out the mistake, but by then, they found some old failure to appear warrant, and I ended up having to stay in there until the judge could finally dismiss the thing.”

I found myself marveling at this. How could an outfit get someone put in jail? That’s when it dawned on me.

Remember how I said everything had to match? Yeah… about that.

The guy had bought a bright orange shirt, bright orange vest, bright orange slacks, and bright white sneakers. At the time, Atlanta’s jails had inmates wear bright orange jumpsuits… and white shoes. It turned out that the day he went, there’d been an escape.

I guess the moral of the story is, don’t wear any clothing that makes you look like an escaped prisoner.

This story is part of our Best Of October 2020 roundup!

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A middle-aged woman comes into my store needing help with finding some items on a baby registry, and I am happy to oblige. As I scan her list, I can already tell that something is amiss because I have never even heard of the items or brands that are listed. I look at the bottom of her registry and notice a familiar logo which is NOT the emblem of my store, but rather the store across the street.

Me: “Ma’am, you are at the wrong store. That is why you are having trouble finding these items.”

Customer: “I know that I’m not at the right store! It’s too hard to get in and out of that store, so I came here. How come you all don’t sell the same merchandise?”

Me: “Because they are [Competitor] and we are [Our Store].”

Customer: “Well, isn’t that the same thing?”

Me: “No.”

I don’t know if she ever found what she was looking for.

I am the manager of a women’s clothing store. We have large mirrors throughout the store and in each dressing room.

A woman and her six-year-old son come into the store. While mom shops, the little boy gets bored, wanders a little, though not far from mom, and discovers the triple mirrors. He then proceeds to play with the mirrors and gets his handprints on them.

I’m not concerned because the mirrors have to be cleaned top to bottom every night.

Me: *Jokingly* “If you keep doing that, I’m going to give you the glass cleaner and make you clean those.”

His face just lights up.

Boy: “Really? Can I?”

Mother: “He loves cleaning. You should let him clean them.”

He looks so excited, I ask the mother if she is serious.

Mother: “Absolutely!”

I give the boy the paper towels and the glass cleaner, and he just goes to town. He not only cleans the mirror he’s touched, but he starts on all the other mirrors in the store, too. His mother and I are watching him while she continues to shop. I turn away to find something for her when she starts laughing. I look over, and he is climbing under the dressing room doors — they are kept locked — so he can clean those mirrors, too. He is having so much fun that his mother and I can’t help but laugh and enjoy his excitement.

A few weeks later, the boy and his mother return with his younger brother. The older boy comes right up to the counter with a hopeful expression on his face.

Boy: “Can I clean the mirrors again? My brother wants to help.”

I looked at their mother, who nodded, so I gave them the cleaner and the paper towels and off they went. The older boy was telling his younger brother how to clean the mirrors “just right.” Yes, they went under the dressing room doors, too, because that was more fun than having me unlock the doors for them.

I left that job soon after, so I don’t know if they ever came back in, but that young boy is one of my best memories from that job and still brings a smile to my face when I think about him and his mother who was smart enough to indulge his joy of cleaning.

Related:
On Reflection, Best Not To Ask…

This story is part of our Feel Good roundup for October 2020!

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