I Work as a Fashion Consultant

I work in a women’s clothing shop—a boutique, it’s called. It’s not a retail chain; rather, it’s a small, intimate main-street salon, with loyal, well-heeled clientele. We know our regulars by name, and many have become friends over the years.

We dress our customers for weddings, funerals, garden parties, and backyard barbecues. Life events? We can dress you for that.

Last week a woman came into the shop looking a little flustered. She needed something to go with a skirt her husband was bringing her from out of town. A blouse, perhaps, or a sweater, to complement a skirt she can’t describe very well. And it was for her father’s funeral, which was taking place later that day. I pointed out a few blouses, but none seemed suitable. Luckily, I had a sleek black dress in her size, perfectly appropriate with a little flair that meant she could wear it again. As she was trying on a series of items, we chatted about losing our fathers. I’d recently lost my dad, and we talked openly about what it’s like to lose a parent during COVID. We shared stories of how we cared for our elderly parents, the administrative responsibilities we had as adult daughters, and what it felt like caring for our other parent after one had died. We got a little glum at points. There were moments of commiserative silence. Sighs. Mentions of family. Support systems. How many people were allowed at visitation and at funerals these days. There was a genuine camaraderie in shared grief. Surprised smiles when she emerged from the fitting room in the dress I’d selected and fit her perfectly. For a moment, we numbed our sadness by determining what accessories best suited her ensemble—did she require a necklace, or would earrings do? Short boots and tights OK, or did she need something more formal?

As I carefully wrapped her dress in tissue paper, I apologized in the event we’d become too morose. She said, “No, a lot of people won’t even talk about it. They’re afraid, maybe. They don’t want to dwell on death.”

“I think talking about grieving helps us live with it,” I answered.

She picked up her bag and walked towards the door. “Thank you. Really.” She smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome,” I smiled back. “I hope everything goes well today. Take good care.”

A couple of days prior, a woman walked to her car parked directly in front of the store. She was carrying a wrapped bouquet of flowers, and as she reached in to place them on the passenger seat, I noticed how perfectly coiffed her hair was. Styled with that perfection that only comes directly from a hair salon. I thought it looked lovely.

She locked her car, turned, and walked to our front door.

“Hello,” I greeted her. “Did you just have your hair done? It’s beautiful!”

“Yes,” she answered. “Thank you, I did.”

And because we’re a relatively small downtown, I asked, “Oh, where do you go?”

She named the salon, and it’s the same one I go to. Same stylist, too.

“Well, I just wanted you to know. I noticed it when you were putting your flowers in the car. Just stunning,” I told her.

She glanced at some new items on the front rack, touched a couple, and turned to me.

“You don’t know how that makes me feel,” she explained. Tears sprung to her eyes.

I smiled and reassured her. “It’s the truth…” my words drifted off.

“I’m losing my hair,” she explained. “I’m very self-conscious about it. I just think everyone notices it.”

“Not at all,” I replied. “It looks absolutely lovely.” I thought of several of my friends who had lost their hair during chemotherapy. I observed them losing their eyebrows and eyelashes. I cheered as their scalps sprouted wispy tendrils as they were in remission.

“I have an autoimmune disease,” she continued. “It’s permanent. It’s not going to grow back.”

I sighed, unsure of what to say.

“It seems silly, when others have so much more to deal with,” she uttered. “It’s just hair.”

“It’s YOUR hair,” I ventured. “Of course, it’s upsetting. Our hair is part of our identity, isn’t it?”

I think she understood that I didn’t see it as trivial or that I considered her vain.

As she continued to browse, she mentioned she’d eventually get a wig. We chatted about the evolution of wigs and hairpieces since the 1960s, and how they’re not as hot or fake-looking as they once were. She felt confident she’d find a suitable one. I gave her the name of a wig store in town, a place others had recommended.

She didn’t purchase anything that morning, but as she was leaving, she asked me about hats and when we’d be restocking. Yes, she will need hats to protect her thinning hair. Yes, I told her, I’d keep her in mind and make sure we picked some good ones…just for her.

We’re a dog-friendly shop; we keep dog treats for those who visit with their canine companions, and the shop owner and I both support animal organizations. Dog-walkers stop by for treats or just to say hello. Quite often, if the store isn’t busy, we’ll step outside to greet them.

One older woman walks by with her dog every day. Her senior canine companion knows where the treats are, and they stop to take one before continuing on their way. One day I stepped outside to say hello. Like every dog’s friend, this woman carries treats in her pocket. She explained to me that her pup prefers our treats, because the ones in her pocket are healthier (and I suppose therefore not as delicious). I sighed…it reminded me of my dad, who used to keep treats in his pockets for our border collie. I told her:

“After my dad died, I cleaned out his jacket pockets,” I explained. “I found two Milk Bones and a peppermint. That was my dad, pure and simple. Everything he needed for a good day.”

She looked at me for a moment and replied, “Yes, that was the same with my husband. He always carried dog treats and mints in his pockets.” She paused. “I miss that. I miss…him.”

Here we were, two women who loved dogs and the good men who cared for them. Two women who missed the kind, animal-loving guys who carried mints and dog treats, in the event they might encounter an opportunity to offer them. How wonderful that moment, full of nostalgia and longing for another moment with our loved ones. Recognizing our common ground. And feeling that somehow, dogs and their loyal companionship made grieving them just a little more sweet than bittersweet.

All this, in a retail fashion environment.

Our customers share their stories with us—stories of illness, grieving, weight loss, weight gain, joy, family, and triumph. And we work through our own illnesses, grieving, joy, family celebrations, and triumphs with the help of those who shop with us. We share our life experiences with each other, often in snippets of deep connection—connections that perhaps wouldn’t take place in any other forum.

It’s quite satisfying, really; we help women look and feel their best, and not just on the outside. They, in turn, share their lives with us. Crazy how a dress becomes much more than its label and the fabric it's made from, it becomes a story, a point in time, and eventually a memory. And imagine, a store, a place where things to wear are bought and sold, becomes part of a story through which we grow and we become strong together. Confidence and a sense of belonging looks good on everyone. That’s retail therapy.