One particular agency insisted I always wore a pencil skirt, tight blazer and high-heels to my shift.
Wherever that shift was.
And one of the places you really don’t need to be dressed like a budget sexy secretary, is Boots.
I was there to sell mascaras for a particular make-up brand. The usual drill: stand where there’s most footfall and accost everybody with the non-offer, “Have you tried this new mascara?”.
Trouble was, everybody assumed I was the manager. Why the hell else would I be wearing a SUIT in Boots and talking to customers like I was paying a royal visit to the shop floor.
After initial attempts to explain that I didn’t know anything about anything and, actually I’m not even proper staff, I gave in.
The path of least resistance was to pretend I was indeed the manager.
I gladly started taking customers’ feedback about the shop layout, the price of toothpaste, and the length of the checkout queue last Tuesday. They felt heard, seen, and comforted by my professional assurance that I would feed this back to the relevant departments. (I would not. My access to Important People At Boots was no different to theirs). And if anybody wanted to know something, I’d usher over a staff member and let the customer know that *reads name badge* “Sue!” will show them where the Veet is. Friendly and authoritative.
At one point there was nobody available to help. So I took a poor lady on a tour of the shop, desperately seeking Sudocrem. It meant that I had to escalate my position to Area Manager to keep up appearances: “They’ve rearranged it since my last visit!”
It was a busy day stationed in the middle of the shop as acting store / area manager. And I don’t know that I sold too many mascaras.
But that’s their fault for making me wear a suit.
Average Brunette 