Monday, December 26, 2011

Men. Christmas. Presents. Perfumes

(Previously in Men. Christmas. Presents)
As I said before, nothing beats the experience of two guys in a perfumery.  One with a serene look minding his own business, well tucked in, fully unaware of the whole rush going around, sucking at his own fingers at times, giggling happily whenever he sees a smiling face (mostly female). The other one - my ten-month-old son.

Well, I'm in the dragon's lair. What shall I buy there? Plenty of options: perfumes, nail varnish, complexion powder, crayons, creams, the whole enchilada. I start making my short list: perfumes - ruled out, many smell differently on the skin than on the paper stick, varnish - possible, but as a backup, powders - complicated, crayons - wow, together with some nail varnish, that's actually a great idea. So cream it is :D.

All these mental preparations took place near the entrance. Then I started to walk to counter, as confident as that unfortunate student being called to the principal's office. And on the way there they smelt me out!

I saw the woman behind the counter whispering something in a tiny microphone, duly hidden in her collar. I couldn't hear her, but I could clearly read her lips.

"Here's the sparrow", she mouthed, "the eagle has landed!" and she turned her face to me in a wide smile, very similar to the one that Russian divas give to James Bond  before pointing a gun at him. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Om(f)g", said I but to myself while the doors behind me closed silently, "they're calling me sir, that brings bad omen, last time they called me like that I had appendicitis. And where has everybody gone? Why am I alone here with 20 sales women? I should have bought the bloody iphone".

I grabbed the handles of my son's pram in an attempt to protect him. It must have been some paternal feeling that got activated in those moments of dire threats.

"I... I.... would... like to buy a cream (please don't shoot!)"

Then the inevitable: she shot me!

"What kind of cream?"

I was badly wounded, but not dead yet. I had to think fast: hands, face, feet, breasts (hmmmm, but there's no time for dreaming now, the enemy's at the gate), ears, nose, hair, nails, shoes. Normally the first idea is the genius one, so, between changing of the bandages, I spoke:

"A hand cream, please".

All of the sudden the threat seemed to be gone, the Russian diva's smile was replaced by a more decent one as she was trying to sell me the this-is-your-lucky-day (BEEP).

"We've got this on a special promotion", she chirped while setting a small tube on the counter.

Now, if you think that the tube was as big as some supermarket tooth paste for which you get 36% extra tooth paste, you're wrong. It was slightly bigger than a tube of antibiotics ointment. I peeped at the price tag on it but since she mentioned the special promotion and my lucky day stuff, I asked her to hear the final price.

She reached under the counter, found her gun, put on the Russian diva smile again and before I could roll over to the nearest dugout, she shot me point blank:

"Seventy four, ninety five!"

I fell like a sack of potatoes and I decided to play dead.

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