Short Thing #5

letter to the woman who used to work at the jeans shop

Hello,

You wouldn’t remember me but I remember you. I came into the shop that you were working in to buy a pair of jeans. I can’t remember if I did buy a pair of jeans but I do remember the skirt. I bought my denim skirt from you around ten years ago. It was a Levi’s skirt, but I’m not really a ‘label’ kinda person. I do like Levi’s jeans, but buying jeans is difficult for me. This Levi’s skirt was a great cut and fit for my body. It was a wonderful denim, not too light and not too dark, but strong. You said the skirt looked amazing on me. You had the same skirt on at the time, and you told me you ‘lived’ in it. You said that I would come to love this skirt and I’d never want to take it off. That I’d only ever want to wear this skirt. You laughed. You made me feel as though I was buying a member of the family. Which made me laugh. I’d bought some street shoes across the road before I came to see you. You said my new skirt would look great as a ‘casual’ look, with my new shoes.

It did.

I wore my skirt whenever I could for maybe four or five years. When I gained weight it didn’t quite fit but I’d force it on. When I lost weight I wore it with a scarf tied in as a belt.

I bought that skirt when I was with my husband. My skirt came with me after the divorce.

When I went travelling it was packed. My skirt travelled the world in my back-pack. Or on my body.

When I got pregnant, I wore my skirt until I was too big to do the buttons up. Then I wore it on with a string tied through the button-holes, keeping it up. When my son stretched my belly to its limits I hung my skirt up until after he was born and my belly was relatively normal again.

Then I put my skirt back on.

I took my skirt to an alterations shop, twice, because it began to fray and fall apart. The first time the repair lady had to re-sew a section of the back pocket back onto the main section of the skirt. The rivet had pulled away and my underwear could be seen through the hole that was left. The second time I needed to get the alterations lady to sew, with white cotton, a pattern over a spot that was stained by cooking oil. To match the sewed over pattern, the lady put a couple of other patterns sewed into other little spots on other sections of the skirt. To match.

When my son was nearly eighteen months old I found a replacement of that exact same skirt. It was the same brand and cut but possibly a darker shade of denim. Levi’s only made my skirt for a little while. It was a Levi’s seasonal release for a couple of years and my replacement skirt had been on the shelves of a tiny little shop for a while. It was discounted. It was my size.

I very rarely wash my replacement skirt. I try not to wear it when I’m cooking. I try not to wear my replacement skirt when any serious damage could come to harm it. But I wear my replacement skirt whenever I can. And when I’m feeling crap, I always feel as though I look fabulous in that skirt.

When you sold me my skirt you were the most incredibly warm and genuine sales person I’d ever come across. You told me I looked awesome. You told me that my skirt suited me perfectly. My height. My curves. My butt.

You were curvy but shorter than me. You were blonde and gorgeous and friendly.

I wanted to be like you. That funny, friendly, happy, gorgeous person. You might have sold a million skirts to a million customers in your time in retail but I will always cherish my skirt.

You made it feel as though I was buying another member of my family.

It’s still hanging in my wardrobe.

It only comes out on special occasions.

Thank you.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2011.