Scott and the Shopgirl

An Open Letter to the Saleslady in the Hipster Boutique on Colorado Blvd:

Well, hello. You may not remember me. I'm the chick who was in your shop earlier today. The one you spent 20 minutes or so ignoring.

I asked you a couple of questions that you handily dodged. Perhaps, I thought, you were hard of hearing. But such was not the case because you spent the duration of my stay chatting on your cell phone. You were talking about Scott.  Remember? You seemed very disappointed in him, you think he needs to evolve (your words, not mine), but you can't help being drawn into his light (again, your lame words).

What a pickle you found yourself in. Should I do my job, a job that I am paid to do? Or, should I stand in the center of the store talking on the phone, ignoring customers, and worrying about "the energy Scott gives off"?

I'll offer you a quick tip; gesturing wildly with your head toward the left side of the store when I asked if the grey sweater you had in your window last week was still available, is not considered work, no matter what kind of energy you're giving off.

Another tip, comb your hair.

I know, I know, Scott needs your focus. That takes time, I get that. But here's what else I get; you should work when you are at work. Do your job when you are at...your job. It's easy enough to follow. And after work you can put Scott on the front burner of your worry stove. You can furrow your thick brow, call friends and foe alike and engage in long conversations spent analyzing Scott's "core truth".  Seriously, it seems that's where your passion lies. With Scott. Or discussing Scott.

My passion this afternoon lay with buying my friend a sweater she wanted for her birthday. A steeply priced grey number that your store carries. (When I say your store, it's abundantly clear you're not the owner.)  However, our two passions did not mesh. Scott was the clear victor and I, I'm sorry to report, was not.

Listen, we've all had a Scott. A person who we wring our hands over and spend countless hours dissecting and (I am about to reveal a truth to you, so I hope that if you are prone to swooning you take a cushioned seat) Scott doesn't give a shit. Scott is an asshat. And that, to use your parlance, is Scott's core truth.

Now, brush yourself off, then brush your hair (seriously, just run a comb through it), call a friend for the final installment of the Scott-Scapades, then get to work. And when you get there - work.

With all my heart,

Your Almost Customer