Malls are strange places. People from all walks of life migrate to them. I was one of those people this morning while my car was in the shop, because given the choice between sitting at the dealership for two hours and observing the throng of humanity at the mall, the choice was clear.
First person I saw when I walked in was a middle aged woman in Capri pants and platform flip-flops. Why, why do platform flip-flops exist? The point of the flop is that they are comfy, flat, and easy to walk in. The extra four inches of foam rubber on the bottoms of those shoes only made her walk like a cow, and could have provided at least 100 children with flip-flops of their own. And they didn’t flip or flop… they clomp, clomp, clomped.
Stealthily, I avoided the Mediterranean man who always wants to talk about my cuticles, but my detour landed me directly in the sights of a tiny European woman selling hair straighteners. She wore black hot pants and a corseted T-shirt and had the loveliest wavy hair. Obviously she doesn’t use her own product. Before I knew what was happening, she had me sitting in a chair saying “You are just so tall, I cannot reach your head if you don’t sit down.”
“Really, I don’t need a hair straightener.”
“Well, Vhat do you use to straighten your hair now honey?”
“I don’t.”
“Your hair is this straight, you lucky girl. I show you how to use this to make a wavy hair too. You must brush lots; your hair so smooth.”
“I haven’t used a hairbrush in 12 years.”
“You so funny.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
Making it wavy lesson; over. I walked away with one wavy pigtail, and one straight.
Then it was the lovely young lady leaving a store called Vanity. I swore her jean shorts were actually panties and hoped the little boy she had stolen her blazer from wasn’t going to freeze this winter. Her belly jewelry swung to and fro as she swayed her hips, and as I always do I wondered why her parents let her out of the house looking like that. Until a gray haired man and peroxide blond stepped out behind the young girl, “Honey, wait for us!” The girl glared at them the way only an angsty teenager embarrassed by her parents can do.
The dippin’ dots guy gave me a free sample, played on a computer I will never purchase at the Apple store, seriously considered a Cinnibon, and missed the presence of a music store.
And the sign at
So I went in.
I said, “It’s so hard for me to find Jeans that fit, do you really have something for me? I need a thirty-six inch inseam, prefer a boot cut or a flare and I sort of have heavy thighs for my size.”
The short woman’s eyes darkened and she didn’t crack a smile.
My phone rang, the car was finished.
She was happy to see me leave.
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