After an hour of lunching on a gourmet grilled cheese a few doors down while listening to a celebrity chauffeur spill his backseat dirt at the bar, I returned to the madness to find a warm reminder about Jessica Simpson’s store visit and how imperative it was for employees to not abandon their departments to see how much she weighed in real life.
“Are you available?” a voice crept in from behind as I stood reading over Michelle’s frenetic words one last time.
“I am.” I smiled, turning around to find a woman and a young girl staring at me. “What can I help you find?”
Within seconds, my new customer set free a series of commands, her tone stern and coldly controlled.
“My daughter will be in a pageant next week, and we’ll need a few pieces of shapewear, as well as just a little bit of a padded bra to smooth things over.”
“Okay” slowly left my mouth as I stood looking over the young girl. I studied her highlighted blonde hair tightly twisted into a thick bun and then looked down along her false eyelashes, trimmed and positioned immaculately. Her breasts, akin to a couple donut holes, protruded slightly, making me question the need for a bra at all.
“We’re also going to need some help from the cosmetics counter. Is someone available to come up?” The woman pushed with unyielding regard as her daughter stood silent.
Nearly tongue-tied by the tone in which she delivered her orders, I inched backward and nodded steadily, knowing the second half of my shift had taken a turn for the worst. I would’ve welcomed the sweatiest pair of sisters in 96 degree heat over a demanding pageant mom any day. The discomfort intensified as I took one last look at the young girl, visibly uncomfortable and confused; she couldn’t have been older than ten.
“Uhhh.” I struggled for words. “What sort of shapewear are you looking for? Like a little bicycle short?” I asked, hoping for a quick and easy “yes.”
“No,” the woman replied flatly. “I’m talking about the kind of shapewear that sucks in the rolls, smooths out the tummy, and shapes the behind.”
I couldn’t help flinching from the seriousness of her tone again and her long checklist. I stood while she looked me up and down. My body suddenly felt like an extra-large marshmallow thrust under a microscope piece by piece. This woman had expectations, not to mention a clear vision of what her daughter was supposed to look like as she sashayed across a stage. The glare did not go unnoticed.
Leading them over to one of our shapewear displays, I waited while she carefully examined the midsection of a pair of Spanx. Pulling the hard-wearing fabric sideways and then up and down, she grabbed four different styles of tummy tuckers before heading toward the fitting rooms, graciously reminding me that she’d like a small seamless padded bra in a 30 band ... delivered.
With a lot of deep confusion, I studied a few different options of smaller bras with some kind of removable padding. All of them were way too big for my customer, but I figured time was of the essence, and my patience had already been tested. I couldn’t pass her off to a fellow fitter, but I also couldn’t find any comfort in my situation. What the hell was I doing bringing back shapewear and padded bras for a little girl to wear and somehow maintain a level of professionalism and tact? I felt stuck and considerably challenged by a swarm of moral dilemmas, all within a matter of seconds. What had happened? I thought, squeezing the pre-cut foam with the tips of my fingers. My day had started out on a good note.
Knocking lightly on a dressing room door, I hoped I had the right customers after striking out on my first try and accidently walking in on a woman who sat naked in the chair, talking on her cell phone while rifling through receipts.
“Yes, come in.” The girl’s mother quickly opened the door and stepped to the side, carelessly exposing a carpet covered with discarded shapewear.
“I’m going to need a smaller size in this one.” She held up a light nude body slimmer with extra tummy control.
“This is a small,” I said, reading the tag. “We don’t carry anything smaller.”
“Someone in alterations could take it in from the sides though, right?”
“Umm, I can inquire,” I said, looking over at the girl as she stood hovering in the corner with her arms tightly wrapped around her tummy, wearing only her cotton underwear.
“I can also check the girls’ department for some kind of undergarment to go under whatever she’s wearing.”
The mother shot me another glare, reminding me who had the lead.
“That won’t be necessary,” she replied sharply, unhooking one of the padded bras. “I like the tummy control on these, which she needs.”
I glanced over at the young girl again as she promptly looked up for my reaction. Hoping to cut the tension amid a disturbingly awkward exchange, I tried sounding excited about their chosen extracurricular event, about which I knew nothing.
“So, you’re going to be in a pageant next week?”
“Yeah, it’s the finals,” the girl replied cautiously, her short teeth gleaming.
“That’s cool,” I lied, feeling uneasy and annoyed as I watched the mother lay out her child’s wardrobe bit by bit, including previously purchased shapewear, nipple pads, flesh-toned tights, and a pair of sparkling silver shoes with a noticeable heel I’d probably only manage to walk three steps in.
“Did you have an opportunity to contact the makeup counter? We’re pressed for time,” the mother interjected while unveiling a strapless, hot-pink sequined gown. “And let’s also see what a small strapless bra would look like under this. She should be able to wear a 30 band like the others you brought.”
She, I repeated in my head, disappointed that I hadn’t even taken the time to get the girl’s name, because I was so taken aback with how impersonal and detached and presumptuous her mother was. Her child was invisible, as ironic as it might sound, and there I was assisting the behavior, utterly perplexed. A controlling pageant mom with a really shitty perm was new for me, and all I wanted to do was run in the opposite direction, fleeing every penny of commission I never wanted to earn.
Attempting to keep my composure, I quickly noted her requests and set out for a moment of freedom and a makeup artist who was willing to come up to the lingerie department and play Barbie. The department had picked up considerably. Poor Tabitha hadn’t even been on the sales floor for more than an hour, and she already looked used and abused.
“Do you think you can come check a fit for me?” she asked, pleading with her eyes as she noted Farah talking to Lorenzo in the corner. Knowing I was mere moments away from tripling up on customers while drowning in the same undercurrent of helplessness, I put in a quick call for a makeup artist, snagged the first “small” strapless I could find, and grudgingly followed Tabitha back to her fitting.
We were welcomed by a middle-aged woman who immediately began pointing to the exceptionally tan, thin roll of skin hanging over her bra band.
“Absolutely no back fat!” she exclaimed loudly. “No back fat!”
Staring at the woman’s B-sized breasts and all around her buff, spinach-packed frame, I moved in quickly and double-checked the size on the tag.
“This is disgusting,” she continued, grabbing parts of her back’s skin before tapping on her boobs. “I can’t be seeing this,” she repeated in cold whispers.
“I’m … sorry,” I sputtered, trying to understand what was going on while grabbing the measuring tape from off the hook against the wall. “You mind telling me what you’re looking for?”
“She can’t have any traces of back fat or flesh pouring out from anywhere,” Tabitha tiredly chimed in before staring at me with wide save-me eyes.
“Okay.” I lowered my chin, feeling a mix of uncomfortable feels as I tried to piece everything together and somehow connect all the protruding veins in her forearms.
Repositioning the tape around her rib cage, I barely read the number 32 before running my hand around the band, attempting to change the placement of her
skin and her breasts.
“Way too tight!” she repeated over and over before ripping off the bra and throwing it onto the chair. Tabitha quickly looked in my direction before landing her gaze back on the woman’s naked breasts.
“Okay, okay,” I replied. It certainly wasn’t my first time dealing with a no-back-fat request; however, the sense of urgency, paired with a firm plea, left me baffled. There was no budging, and I knew it.
“The 36 band you picked out is just a little big for you, which won’t offer any support for your boobs,” I continued, staring at her deep-set eyes.
“I still want to try it,” the customer insisted, unhooking one of the 36 Bs. Stepping aside, we all waited in silence and watched while she dressed herself in another bra. Before she could even fasten the hook completely, the band had already crept up her back, eliminating even the slightest skin roll as the cups loosely transformed themselves into a couple nipple guards. The bra did nothing but hang on her chest.
“See!” the woman turned to the side. “No rolls. NO rolls!”
“Nope, no rolls,” I repeated while cocking my head so that I could side-stare at Tabitha, who also stiffened in utter bewilderment as her customer continued to chant “no rolls” while sternly pointing at herself in the mirror as if she was moments away from charging the center of a WWE wrestling ring wearing Wonder Woman’s accessory kit. I had absolutely no sense of direction, or any arrangement of words that would’ve offered the slightest bit of … really, anything. It wasn’t my beast. And if Tabitha wanted to survive the complex nuances of a lingerie department and put money in her pocket, she needed to keep moving.
That said, her customer’s vision was strangely commendable, masterful in its most vulnerable form. I sensed some serious discipline that, had I understood the term and embraced its principals, would’ve catapulted right off my hamster wheel and straight into my own self-regulation. She knew exactly what she wanted, as obsessive or unrealistic as it might’ve appeared. It was hers. All 36 inches of it.
“Looks good,” I said, reaching for the doorknob before reminding Tabitha of her role. “It’s really important that you rotate your bras. Tabitha will grab you a few more to take home.”
After this brief whirlwind of disorder and disillusionment, I took in a deep breath to prepare for what was next and knocked on the dressing room door of my mother/daughter duo. I was somewhat ready for the long tirade that greeted me.
“As I said before, we’re on a tight schedule, and I really need to get this done,” the mother said, making final adjustments to her daughter’s Spanx before taking the strapless bras from my hand. “I also have someone in alterations coming up to alter the shapewear.”
I looked over at her daughter, who stood moving from side to side in front of the mirror, thoroughly examining her new tummy tucker before quietly raising her arms to the side. I stood motionless while her mom fastened the strapless and forcefully squeezed her breast tissue into the cups.
I waited, still fighting for skillful phrasing after stuttering on my first three words.
“Are you comfortable?” I asked, eyeing her small, round tummy pinched into thick elastic fabric.
“I’m okay,” she responded gently, looking up at her mom.
“Maybe all you need is just a thin hipster short,” I suggested, watching her mother pull the pink strapless dress over her bun and strategically place it around her body. “The Spanx seems like a lot.”
“She’s fine,” sharply cut through the room as I turned around to welcome our makeup artist, Benny, to the party. Without a second to lose, I backed away to give them room and watch while our beloved pageant manager assessed her request.
The mother looked over his bright blue eye shadow and colored collagen lips. “I’d like to get her makeup done to go with this dress.”
“No problem.” Benny nodded before turning on his well-versed sales pitch. “But I’ll need for you to come downstairs.”
“I’m not sure we have time to do that,” she replied, running her hand along the sequins. “Are you able to bring some makeup here that we can apply quickly and then buy?”
I could tell Benny was as excited to put makeup on a young girl in a lingerie department as he would have been inside a mortuary. The search for words was almost too much to bear. But it was real life. And we had real customers. All I could think about was moving them out as fast as possible, which made me feel anxious because there was a young girl standing in front of me, unknowingly accepting a set of predetermined rules and standards and wildly unacceptable notions about what she was supposed to look like.
It wasn’t reasonable. And for the first time, while feeling angry and overpowered, I saw the bare roots spinning in circles around me. I had failed as a bra fitter—it came rushing in blows as I noticed the young girl tearing up from exhaustion. The confusion on her face, framed by an uncomfortable familiarity as her tears magnified, made my escape route wider and my loathing stronger.
Quietly stepping out so that Benny could plan his makeover after he succumbed to the pressure, I found Farah standing outside, completely immersed in my exchange.
“JonBenét Ramsey?” she asked sarcastically, offering a pageant gesture to a woman from our alterations department as she made her way through the hallway and into my customer’s dressing room.
“Funny.” I sighed while on the lookout for Michelle, Rachel, and Roxanne. “I’m ready to get out of here.”
“Perfect,” Farah replied, launching right into her grand plan. “I need you to come on a customer delivery with me.”
“No way,” I shot back, noticing her boobs sitting in one of our new French numbers. “I need peace and quiet before this shit show of a sale starts.”
“Come on,” she pleaded, far too close for comfort. “I’ll buy you a couple drinks afterward.”
“What did you do?” I asked, picking up on her desperation while reminding her about a pending IOU.
“Cece Jones.”
“You pissed off Cece Jones?” I asked, following Farah into the stockroom where she had already begun organizing her employee carry.
“I might’ve forgotten to mail a few bras and panties, and she’s heading out of town,” Farah clenched her teeth. “And we don’t even need to go to her house. She’s offered to meet up over this way.”
Staring at Farah, I caved out of sheer curiosity and free drinks, knowing I’d roll out her IOU during the sale—right in the nick of time.
“Your customer is asking for you.” Michelle charged into the stockroom, her eyes bulging in my direction.
“Yes, of course.” I smiled, watching Farah quickly try to hide Cece’s large bag of lingerie by pushing it to the side with her foot. “I’m on my way.”
Welcomed back by Benny and a couple women from our alterations crew, I paused at the sight of a thick makeup brush moving along my young customer’s cheekbones, leaving traces of widespread pinks along the way. Her eyelids had already been marked with hued purples and a few sharp sparkles, and her lips thinly coated in gloss.
She was left standing in nothing but a pair of Spanx so that our seamstresses had room to pick and pull and prod their way around my customer’s body at the mother’s request. She looked like a different kid, almost disturbingly different, making the air feel toxic and suffocating as I moved closer to the dressing room to clean up a pile of go-backs.
“Can we start ringing these items up?” the mother asked while passing over two strapless underwire bras with alteration tickets attached.
“Sure.” I grabbed the bras, noticing her refusal to make eye contact. “I’ll meet you out front.”
Not remotely interested in her timeline, though eager to get her out of the store, I began prepping the purchases until Tabitha found me. Again.
“You mind checking another fit?” she asked timidly.
Looking around the department, I realized I was the only one somewhat available, so I quickly followed Tabit
ha back into a dressing room, happily greeted by a woman wearing only her thong, and a man sitting in the chair covered in panties.
“How we doin‘?” I smiled, trying to keep my gaze near the woman’s collarbone.
“Let me throw on this bra so you can tell me if it fits okay.” The woman hurried, stuffing her triple-Ds into single-D cups.
Staring at their placement, I was hesitant to go in with my hands due to her not-so-sober counterpart sitting against the wall.
“I’d try going up a cup size or two,” I said, looking at Tabitha. “We can grab some for you.”
Following her smile, I turned to open the door, knowing it was my job to boot the gentleman, as men weren’t allowed in the fitting rooms due to privacy concerns and many other reasons. But before I could turn around to kindly ask my customer to leave, I heard pageant mom’s voice grow louder, stopping everyone in their tracks.
“Actually,” I said, closing the door. “Let me measure you first.”
Time sped up as I slowed the process. I tried everything to not have to go back out onto the sales floor, like repositioning the measuring tape five times while her breasts brushed my forearm and a hard-on prospered in my peripheral. But to no avail. Farah didn’t waste any time coming to get me either, and Tabitha had gone full deer-in-headlights.
“You need to learn a thing or two about customer service,” my beloved pageant mother said, pointing her finger at me while catching everyone’s attention at the register. My heart started to race and I could feel my chest tighten as full-blown hives materialized along my neck.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I replied, watching Benny continue to ring up her purchases.
“We’ve been waiting,” she declared, handing over her credit card. “How do you just leave your customer? Don’t you have a job to do? How hard can this be?”
All movement stopped.
I turned to look at her daughter, knowing my job was to remain as calm and tactful as possible. It was obvious she was painfully embarrassed, having been no stranger to her mother’s uncivilized antics. I knew better than to engage. Plus Michelle was right around the corner listening to every word. The last thing I needed was a lecture. So I took the high road, thanking Benny for his excellent customer service before handing over my business card to the mother with a big ole smile on my face.
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