Intimations of Mortality - 6
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future - what's left of it - may hold.
I successfully transitioned from a bored, recalcitrant schoolgirl into an eager and engaged worker. I was never late. I never skipped shifts. I helped with opening up and with tidying up at the end of the day. I smiled a lot.
My bar work and the shops where I worked ad hoc hours paid on the day, straight out of the till. Otherwise, I collected my wages at the end of the week. I was not going to get rich this way but I had turned from an economic liability to a contributor. Half of what I earned, I gave to mum, to help with the housekeeping. The other half went on little treats for myself and essentials, like fags, make up and clothes.
I learned, about one year after I started work, that for every penny I had given mum, dad had reduced the housekeeping he contributed from his wage by the same amount.
Fashion was important to me and looking good was one of the few things I had any control over. I lived at home, as a child, and was still subject to parental rules and discipline, as were my sisters. Outside the home, I could pretend to be an adult, conduct myself as my own person, make the most of my natural advantages.
I was never afraid to do my research. I spent free time in city centre newsagents, leafing through fashion and style magazines. Picking up the jargon, spotting the trends, memorising the names of the couturiers and design houses. Did I occasionally find one of the more expensive publications dropping into my bag while the manager's back was turned? I leave that to your judgment to decide.
(And, yes, in case you are wondering, I was able to read. Had been since before I went to school. It was one of the reasons I held on to whatever sanity I had in those wasted years.)
I used the information I garnered from those glamorous sources to speak to my clients, for that is how I thought of them. Mine. It was another iteration of dream creation, dream interpretation, dream fulfillment. I knew this so well from within myself, I could relate easily to theirs. They came shopping with a vague idea of looking just like they thought they should. With a few days research and a couple of weeks experience under my belt, I was able to take that idea and talk them into a view of themselves in a style, even in a particular garment, that happened to be on display. Completing the transaction fulfilled two dreams - theirs and mine.
They came back, in a week or a month, enough of them to convince me I was right. Make someone's dream come true and they will return for more.
And then there were all those other dreams. Mine and other people's. Dreams in which clothes were less a fulfillment than a barrier. We will have to talk of those dreams another time.
I successfully transitioned from a bored, recalcitrant schoolgirl into an eager and engaged worker. I was never late. I never skipped shifts. I helped with opening up and with tidying up at the end of the day. I smiled a lot.
My bar work and the shops where I worked ad hoc hours paid on the day, straight out of the till. Otherwise, I collected my wages at the end of the week. I was not going to get rich this way but I had turned from an economic liability to a contributor. Half of what I earned, I gave to mum, to help with the housekeeping. The other half went on little treats for myself and essentials, like fags, make up and clothes.
I learned, about one year after I started work, that for every penny I had given mum, dad had reduced the housekeeping he contributed from his wage by the same amount.
Fashion was important to me and looking good was one of the few things I had any control over. I lived at home, as a child, and was still subject to parental rules and discipline, as were my sisters. Outside the home, I could pretend to be an adult, conduct myself as my own person, make the most of my natural advantages.
I was never afraid to do my research. I spent free time in city centre newsagents, leafing through fashion and style magazines. Picking up the jargon, spotting the trends, memorising the names of the couturiers and design houses. Did I occasionally find one of the more expensive publications dropping into my bag while the manager's back was turned? I leave that to your judgment to decide.
(And, yes, in case you are wondering, I was able to read. Had been since before I went to school. It was one of the reasons I held on to whatever sanity I had in those wasted years.)
I used the information I garnered from those glamorous sources to speak to my clients, for that is how I thought of them. Mine. It was another iteration of dream creation, dream interpretation, dream fulfillment. I knew this so well from within myself, I could relate easily to theirs. They came shopping with a vague idea of looking just like they thought they should. With a few days research and a couple of weeks experience under my belt, I was able to take that idea and talk them into a view of themselves in a style, even in a particular garment, that happened to be on display. Completing the transaction fulfilled two dreams - theirs and mine.
They came back, in a week or a month, enough of them to convince me I was right. Make someone's dream come true and they will return for more.
And then there were all those other dreams. Mine and other people's. Dreams in which clothes were less a fulfillment than a barrier. We will have to talk of those dreams another time.
61-69, F
