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Beardiness
Jan. 12th, 2004 09:39 pmI'm in the supermarket, striding purposefully down the aisles as I hunt and gather in the modern idiom- fruit and veges, oyster sauce, bread for sandwiches, ham, and smartly to the checkout.
The checkout operator is, as far as I can tell, twelve. He's out to impress though, a quick smile, "good evening sir", and my veges are lobbed over the scanner and thump! into the waiting bags. I wince as my bunch of bananas are bodyslammed by a kilo of carrots. (The oyster sauce is packed carefully into a separate bag)
"You work for yourself eh?" says the child behind the counter, as he stands on tiptoes to peer over the scanner while I swipe my card.
confusion
my job involves a lot of autonomous thought and self-management but is by no means working for myself- I do what Glenn asks me to do and I do it well. "No, not really. Why?"
"Oh! but your boss doesnt make you shave off the beard?"
ah. I understand. This is probably the first job this kid has had, and being a supermarket wage-slave, he does not have the right of personal expression. We are the Foodtown. You will be assimilated. And, coincidentally, 'no beards please, we're professional' is one of my favourite rants. The poor lad cops it.
"No, my boss doesnt ask me to shave it off because a) he respects me as a person, b) he knows it doesnt affect my work in any way, c) my clients live in the real world and are quite accepting of the fact that men sometimes grow beards, and d) he knows my boyfriends would kill him."
Checkout Child is notably flustered. Perhaps too much information? Too hard a concept to grasp? The unbroken, polished delivery (of which I am extremely proud) suggests that Im not only hairy but a nutcase as well? not so lucky...
Still staring at my face, he scrabbles at his desk until he finds a scrap of till tape and a pen. "here, here's my number, can you call me?"
EEEEEEEEEK. its a pickup line.
My brain siezes with horror and revulsion. Im being hit on by someone younger than my little sister. I was so swept up in my high-and-mighty rejection of the status quo that I'd failed to notice the doey eyes and trembing hands. Now its my turn to be flustered. "no thanks kid, im into older guys, give it a few years eh?" Not bad, I think, although looking back Im pretty sure the only words he'll remember are "no thanks..."
a crestfallen look.
And then the impersonal professional smile again. "thankyou for shopping here, have a nice night, Sir."
The checkout operator is, as far as I can tell, twelve. He's out to impress though, a quick smile, "good evening sir", and my veges are lobbed over the scanner and thump! into the waiting bags. I wince as my bunch of bananas are bodyslammed by a kilo of carrots. (The oyster sauce is packed carefully into a separate bag)
"You work for yourself eh?" says the child behind the counter, as he stands on tiptoes to peer over the scanner while I swipe my card.
confusion
my job involves a lot of autonomous thought and self-management but is by no means working for myself- I do what Glenn asks me to do and I do it well. "No, not really. Why?"
"Oh! but your boss doesnt make you shave off the beard?"
ah. I understand. This is probably the first job this kid has had, and being a supermarket wage-slave, he does not have the right of personal expression. We are the Foodtown. You will be assimilated. And, coincidentally, 'no beards please, we're professional' is one of my favourite rants. The poor lad cops it.
"No, my boss doesnt ask me to shave it off because a) he respects me as a person, b) he knows it doesnt affect my work in any way, c) my clients live in the real world and are quite accepting of the fact that men sometimes grow beards, and d) he knows my boyfriends would kill him."
Checkout Child is notably flustered. Perhaps too much information? Too hard a concept to grasp? The unbroken, polished delivery (of which I am extremely proud) suggests that Im not only hairy but a nutcase as well? not so lucky...
Still staring at my face, he scrabbles at his desk until he finds a scrap of till tape and a pen. "here, here's my number, can you call me?"
EEEEEEEEEK. its a pickup line.
My brain siezes with horror and revulsion. Im being hit on by someone younger than my little sister. I was so swept up in my high-and-mighty rejection of the status quo that I'd failed to notice the doey eyes and trembing hands. Now its my turn to be flustered. "no thanks kid, im into older guys, give it a few years eh?" Not bad, I think, although looking back Im pretty sure the only words he'll remember are "no thanks..."
a crestfallen look.
And then the impersonal professional smile again. "thankyou for shopping here, have a nice night, Sir."
