It’s been a while since I wrote an entry on this goal, and I thought it was well time I did.
31. My sweetheart man roughed up a saleslady at Sephora.
Today, my sweetheart man and I had a leisurely Labor Day holiday. We slept late and had a 2-hour, five-course lunch with all the trimmings. Then, he asked what I wanted to do and I told him: I wanted to pick up this item at Sephora.
For those of you who don’t know that store, Sephora is a very uppity albeit well-stocked beauty store. They have a lot of brands, tools and products. They also have a seething arrogance that is only bested by Ulta.
My sweetheart man good-naturedly agreed and routed us directly to the nearest location. He offered to let me off at the door, but instead I insisted on walking through the parking lot and escorting him into the store. I did this for two reasons: 1) because I like spending time walking with him and 2) I didn’t want him walking into Sephora by himself and getting attacked by coiffed harpies.
My guy has gone to Sephora on infrequent occasion to pick up an item or two for me, and he has regaled me with tales ranging from neglect to outright contempt. He is a rooster in an agitated hen house, a male with an estrogen target on his backside, and not in a good way! He gets treated shoddily or just downright mean, and that really offends me to no end.
However, this store is the only one locally who carries the product in question that I needed wanted. So in we went, with me trying to keep an open mind and conduct myself in a behaviorally neutral manner.
I saw a saleslady that I had worked with just last week, and she remembered me. I told her that I was here to buy the product that she gave me a sample to try. The bottles are quite similar in this line, same price and same shape, size and volume. Only the description in little print is different to identify a cream leave-in conditioner from a styling cream.
I explained, “I’m trying to remember which one I got vs. which one I want. They were both in that bottle for X price.”
“Aren’t those two bottles the same?” inquired my sweetheart man.
“Oh, don’t let HIM get involved, he’ll only confuse things and get it wrong!”
I was shocked, and now I was the one confused. This saleslady was not a best buddy, this was an individual with whom I had one or two conversations in my lifetime. This was not a dear friend or eccentric relative, for which I would be obligated to make allowances.
I said, “Excuse me?” I was hoping I had just imagined her previous excited utterance.
“I said, HE’LL just MESS it up! Why don’t you go stand over there,” as she gestured my man to a nearby corner.
In retrospect, I should have turned on my heel and walked out. Maybe I should have upset the proverbial apple cart and pelted her with fruit. I was too stunned to think of these things at the time.
Instead, I said to my sweetheart man, “Should we just go? I can put this back and we can just go.” Like the true gentleman he is, my sweetheart man not only insisted we stay steadfast, but he played along.
He tried to reach out and retrieve a bottle for me, which greatly upset the saleslady. You would have thought these bottles were made of Irish crystal instead of sturdy plastic—nevertheless, I wasn’t sure if my man was trying to get a rise out of her by approaching the coveted casks.
He determinedly ignored the huffing and puffing of the saleslady and asked me, “What does this do?” in a plaintive voice. “This is part of a system, isn’t it?”
As an aside, he tries so hard to understand, and at Aveda they harp on products within systems as if each Advisor had their own engineering degree.
“I’ll explain it in the car, let’s go,” I said to my darling man. I wanted to quickly slink out of there and make our way to the cashier, pay and leave.
My sweetheart man insisted on taking his time, thanking the horrid saleslady for her attention and concern. He touched every display on the way to the cash wrap, encouraging me to do the same. He asked, “Are you SURE you don’t wish for anything else, dear?”
When I declined, wordlessly, he gallantly presented the item to the cashier with a flourish as if it was the Hope diamond or at least a one-of-a-kind treasure, fit for a princess. He took the impossibly small shopping bag from me to carry, as if he was transferring a great weight to his sturdy shoulders to spare me. He escorted me to the exit and held the door, even holding it for two other ladies exiting the shop who stuttered a surprised “thank you” before resuming their conversation. Then, and only then, we left the premises.
I ask you, gentle readers, what would you have done?
Made a scene?
Return the product in protest?
Go back and harass the saleslady daily until she quits or drops from exhaustion?
Something else?
