In hindsight, I should never have walked in there without a pre-game strategy. This much I now know.
Because when you have a backbone as weak – and crushable – as a packet full of potato crisps, you forget how costly your own meek, agreeable nature can be. Literally.
This week, when I decided that maybe I should get a facial on my day off because I have always been invested in my skin (??) and definitely have money to throw around (??), I realised my haemorrhaging bank account had very little to do with the bills coming in, and much more with my propensity to smile and swipe whenever someone suggests I definitely need a pet rabbit with three legs. Or, in short, whenever someone tries to sell me something I absolutely don’t need and I don’t have the strength to tell them I absolutely don’t need it.
Here’s how I came to this conclusion.
On Monday, I walked into the skincare place (not its actual, nor technical, name) to be greeted by a facialist who was quite lovely. I filled out a form about my skin (yes, it has a little redness, yes, I’d like it to be less dry) and walked on in to the room.
I had already made my first mistake, you see. I told her I had things I wanted to fix. She now had something to sell me.
I laid down, she inspected my skin. I was a little red, she said. And a bit dry, too? Clever lady. She read my form. She began suggesting ways to fix it. Gels. Creams. Serums.
She hadn’t even touched my face yet and I had lost.
Because although I had gone in with the sole intention of relaxing for, say, an hour, I spent the proceeding 60 minutes working out how I was going to tell her I did not want to buy any of the products she was going to try and sell me at the end.
Maybe I could joke about being a poor uni student? Maybe I could tell her I owned all of the above? Maybe I could tell her I have an appointment and need to run straight there from my facial. Like, immediately.
