BEAUTY MARKS

DA STUFF

"Okay, Madame, I sympathize with your dilemma, but you see this here." Kaede used the pencil tip to point, "that's the outline of a halo of a crime called sweat. That right there looks and smells like drops of beer, and I doubt you perfume yourself with that. Yes, the price tag is on it, but this gown is worn. Unfortunately, I can't apply the refund policy to this."

"It cost five hundred euros," the customer shrieked loud enough for all those in the queue and roaming customers to hear while she looked about to make sure she grabbed everyone's attention.

"I'm sorry, Kaede," Andrea, the sales assistant who told the customer to take her complaint to one of her managers, whispered.

"No problem," Kaede pursed her lips and waited for the woman to finish her show.

"Excuse Madame, it's because it costs that price that I can't put it back to sell. What you can do to get compensation is to put it up on sale on Vinted. It's a designer dress; I'm sure it will interest someone. What I can do for you is edit ten percent for your next purchase."

Kaede attempted to be accommodating; she knew how the hipsters trolled commerce. She wanted to avoid the assassin killer Google review.

The woman placed her index and forefinger on her forehead; one could think she went through the most stressful event of her existence, "how do-I mean how, am I supposed to do that? I pay a dress five hundred euros, and you are telling me to go and do some manual labor to sell it. Get me your manager."

Kaede shook her head, which she sunk a little as if to say, who did you think you were talking to this whole time, "madame, I am a manager."

The woman gave Kaede a sardonic grin, "well, I want someone else's opinion."

Joseph did not deal with customers; his job was to travel cross country to reel in investors. Da Stuff was one project among a multitude of business ventures. In a situation like this, Kaede had no choice but to call in her arch enemy.

Kaede sighed and pressed on her earpiece, "Kaede for Marco, can you come to till 1, please."

"You called," the sight of Marco made the customer gulp. From then onwards, all that followed was theater screen worthy. The complaining customer no longer cared about reimbursement.

The shrieks became soft and sweet as Jane Birkin replying to Gainsbourg's the Je T'aime Moi Non-Plus. Marco whisked the woman away from the counter only to bring her back with a pile of garments that stacked up an easy 3K.

"Oh, can I have you Instagram," she asked with a beaming smile.

"Yeah, sure," Marco took a name card from his pocket and handed it, the customer wooed by the gesture.

This exchange, too, was a requirement for being hired. According to Joseph, no one desired to buy something seen on the awkward or ugly. People not only came to the store to purchase but to seek inspiration. At Da Stuff, one came as they were with their fashion cachet. Mohawks, dreads, dyes, afros, tattoos, drag queens, trans, punks, goth loli, skaters, and many more. The store was a contemporary and urban Noah's ark of trends.

Everyone except Kaede, who boycotted social media, had a name card with all their media links embossed. There, clients could swoon as much as they desired over the staff's beautiful physique. The flirtatious customer allowed Marco to hit his 95.1k follower milestone.

In her early thirties, the woman brunette turned back to Kaede, who worked on the schedules from the tills, "your colleague here is a real gentleman."

As soon as Marco was distracted by another customer query, the woman leaned over and said, "it's still okay, for the ten percent, I hope."

As usual, the store's customers showed that no saving was a small saving. Kaede scanned the items while Andrea prepared the clothes.