This is this third Bridal Shop Story post about the goings-on at my old bridal salon, Promise...for the savvy bride.
****I swear this story is true....and all the customer names have been changed! *****
Kori and I looked at each other helplessly, unsure of what to say to the woman who had just blown into my shop heralded by imaginary trumpets. As she breezed past giving us the royal wave, she said, “I need a wedding dress.”
Her blonde hair tied in ponytail so severe my own head ached, I followed her silently, simultaneously weighing my options and wondering how she had gotten her hair that way.
Since opening four months ago, I had learned a few things, but still had not yet figured out how to deal with random, imperious women charging into my store.
In that short amount of time, though, I had figured out that ladies who shoved the gowns as though they were parting the Red Sea, metal hanger hooks screaming indignantly as they raked across the garment rack, was never a good sign. Neither was snatching gowns to be thrown over a shoulder in the manner of one shopping for discount designer merchandise at T.J.Maxx.
Muttering to herself as she shifted a Louis Vuitton bag that obscured her torso, my customer reached a hand up to grab a gown. I needed to take control of the situation. Swallowing my trepidation, I greeted her again.
“Hi! Would you like to try that on?”
Smiling brightly, I removed her selection off the rack and held it aloft, arm vertically extended, the gown a luxurious white shadow behind me.
“Yes. I didn’t see anyone here when I came in and assumed I should help myself. I need a wedding dress.”
Ah. Well. She had come to the right place.
“You see,” she continued with an impatient sniff. “I am very busy, and while this is my third marriage, he can afford it, and I want the gown I wasn’t able to have for my other weddings.”
Oh.
“OK!” I chirped, desperately hoping my tattletale face didn’t give away what I thought about that. Introducing myself, I asked her what type of gown that would be.
“Well, Jessica, I don’t know. I’ll have to try them all on to figure that out. What’s your most expensive? We are having our wedding at our 5 million dollar home in Georgetown.”
Sherri* delivered this with a straight face, while I struggled to keep mine.
Consoling myself with the notion that once we got started I’d get a feel for what she liked, and unable to even bring myself to address her other criteria, I skimmed my fingers over our catalogue of gowns. Lustrous fabric cool beneath my hands, I considered.
Behind me, Sherri checked her watch, fairly vibrating with impatience.
In a flash of insight, I knew what to do. I reached for an elegant, silk charmeuse bias cut gown with a deep V, my favorite lace gown, a draped mermaid, and a ball gown. Before she was able to gather the words to tell me she wanted to try more than that, I said, “Why don’t we start with these? We’ll come get more after we get a feel for what you like.”
Pursing her lips, Sherri nodded and followed me to her dressing room. Gently pulling the chocolate curtains aside, I hung her gowns on the wall and handed her a robe.
“I’ll just be outside. When you’re ready, let me know, and I’ll help you into the dresses.”
Adding that we also had bras if she needed one, I excused myself to stand beside the curtains while she changed out of her clothes.
“Excuse me, Jennifer?” Sherri called out amid the rustling of fabric. “I don’t need your help, so could you please leave after you zip me?”
Um.
Planning to explain why I needed to help her after I closed her gown, I passed through the curtains and into the soft light of the dressing room. Standing before the large mirror, Sherri stood, twisting herself awkwardly as she attempted to zip the dress closed. Pooled around her on the floor and caught under one spiked pump, was my delicate silk charmeuse dress.
I could already see a run where her heel had dragged across the fabric and pulled a thread loose. Barely containing my irritation, I quickly knelt to release it and shift the fabric away from her feet.
Standing, I started to zip and tell her what she had accidentally done as a means to explain why she needed my help, when I stopped cold. All sense of decorum and customer service fled with my next words.
“Wait. Are you not wearing any underwear?”
“Of course not. I never do. Even when I wear jeans.”
More information than I needed.
“I have to ask you to wear underwear while you try on our gowns.”
“Why? I don’t have cooties. I have a home worth millions in Georgetown. I’m not some girl off the street.”
We were at an impasse. I had no desire to see what was under my poor sample dress, and in no mood to back down.
“I’m sorry. You’re welcome to come back when you have underwear.”
Sherri’s face bloomed, anger dancing in splotches across her too-taut complexion. Shaking the gown from her shoulders, it crumpled to the floor.
“This place has no class, and you’re a bitch.”
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