An Open Letter to a Store Clerk

Dear (pause a moment to glance at nametag)....Natasha,

Hello, how are you? You work in a store that I dearly love. Actually no, that's a lie. I love the clothes that are colourfully arrayed within its four walls, but I can't really say that I bear any fondness for the store itself. "Why?" you may ask - after all, your little shop carries the only pair of jeans in existence that makes my butt look kind of JLo'esque, and the luxuriant warmth of your cashmere sweaters is truly heavenly against my skin.

So, what makes me approach the doors of your shop with trepidation, eyeing the entryway as though it were a yawning, fiery gate to hell? Um, well...it's you Natasha. It's you and your attitude.

As I wander into your domain, you glance up from your station at the counter, eyeing me with what can only interpreted as cool disdain, arms crossed in front of your perfect size-2 torso. The corners of your artfully glossed lips turn down just a little, and you flip your carefully highlighted hair back over your shoulder in that universal female sign of displeasure.

I hesitate for a moment, rendered timid by the contemptuous stare that rakes me from head (My roots are an inch long!) to toe (The vestiges of a plum coloured pedicure makes my feet look pretty sad). Yet, buoyed by the prospect of the pretty frocks almost within arm's reach, I press on.

Your frown deepens, your perfectly curled lashes fluttering in distress that I've dared enter your inner sanctum. You gather up enough energy to sigh out a sulky "Hiiii..", then retreat back to the counter, where your equally thin, well-groomed and well-coiffed colleague (who I'll arbitrarily call Eduardo) is folding cashmere sweaters into perfect rectangles.

As I browse the first rack of clothes, you carefully ignore me, laughing at some secret joke you're sharing with Eduardo, whose dark eyes keep flitting back to me. The language of your willowy teenage bodies is reminiscent of that cheerleady High School clique, those girls that made the ridiculing of less cool girls a hobby.

Look. I get it. You're tall and thin and hot and cool, and I'm not. I'm practically ancient compared to you. My hair's frizzy, my eyebrows haven't been waxed since time immemorial. In spite of my positively elderly stature, I'm still prone to break-outs. Though I love fashion, and I love my look, it can't possibly compete with your du moment garb.

Now, here's the thing. You're there, Natasha, to sell the clothes. You may have been wondering why you get a cheque every two weeks for standing around a boutique, looking like an animate mannequin. Well...the sole reason your employers pay you, you see, is to push their wares to consumers. Consumers like me. Consumers only too happy to carry off an arm-load of cashmere sweaters and butt-moulding jeans.

But Natasha, you should really be a conduit to this whole buying experience, not a scary, snarling obstacle. You should be there for me - smiling, ready, willing to help out a poor woman such as myself. A woman not as genetically blessed as you...a woman who could use your expert eye to help locate the styles that work for my body type. Instead of eyeing me sulkily from your station beside Eduardo, you should be ready to leap to my assistance, should I accidentally wedge myself into a pair of too-tight skinny jeans and require an over-sized shoehorn to get out.

I mean, what else is there to do during your 7.5 hour sentence within these store walls? (It seems like a sentence by your obvious displeasure in being here). I mean, other than reliving your high school days (which may have been as recently as an hour ago) by giggling mercilessly at hapless customers struggling to fit into the wrong size of clothes and being misguided enough to think that you would deign to get down off your seemingly lofty high horse and help them.

And so, ask only this of you, Natasha. Think what it is you're paid for, and think what a noble and altruistic role you could play in the lives of other women. You could make so many girls happy by helping them into the right pair of slacks or by suggesting a colour that would really make their eyes pop...you could be solely responsible for raising the confidence and self-esteem of a legion of women. So heed your calling, Natasha...or go work somewhere where a smile and a helpful attitude aren't pre-requisites.