Dear Fashion store attendant,

Stop acting like you own the fucking store.

“photo of woman holding white and black paper bags” by freestocks.org on Unsplash

The story begins like this…

My dear mother, who doesn’t speak English but worked hard enough that I could earn myself a high end education, wanted to visit with me; in Sydney, Australia.

Since, I’ve been quite fortunate to make quite a comfortable living — I felt why not take mum for shopping.

We decided to go to Westfield (For those who don’t know, it’s a High-End Shopping Centre in the heart of Sydney), once there she was amazed by the architecture and all the shinny stores within.

I promised her, mum you can buy anything you want — no problem at all.

It’s the least I can do.

She’s not much of a materialistic person, but I was hoping she’d buy something; because it would make me happy to see my mum enjoying what we’ve been able to accomplish.

She finally spotted a store and told me she’d seen the advertisement for it on the tele, so I said “Well! Why don’t we go in, check out what they have in store?”; to which she rejoiced.

We went in, instantly I could feel the vibe of the store; it felt like the store clerk had already made up their mind, we weren’t worthy of their offerings.

My mother looked around, checking the price tags and asking me to translate — I told her it didn’t matter.

The store clerk glaring at us, me ignoring their glances.

Another customer walks in, clearly better dressed than my mother — dressed for the occasion, spoke english, suffice it to say the customer fit the description of what one would expect to shop at a high-end fashion outlet.

A high-end customer for a high-end store, I assume.

The customer waltzes about, is offered a serving of freshly squeezed Orange Juice; hmm…I wonder why we were deprived of the offering.

We continue looking around the store, my mother still asking me to translate the price tags — me reminding her it doesn’t matter.

Hmm…I hope the Orange Juice was worth it.

Finally, my mother picks out a loverly hang bag — price tag doesn’t matter, mum.

Let’s go get it!

There was silence, the attendant apologised, and even offered us some Orange Juice.

But the transaction had been made, my mum none the wiser of the price tag.

Quite frankly, I figured I’d done a decent job considering if my mum wasn’t around I would’ve probably thrown a fit and gone on a rant.

Decided not to.

Mum would be very angry with me, if she found out I disrespect another person.

My mum didn’t understand at the time, words said were lost in translation, but ain’t nobody going to treat my mother like she’s a second-class citizen.

Remember that, folks. If you work at a high-end fashion store, doesn’t give you the right to go on a judgemental power-trip.

You never know who’s shopping.

This one’s for mum!

Thank you for reading. :)

I failed to learn the piano, so I decided I’d play the keyboard instead. //All aboard the Crazytrain.

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