I confess. Kiosk people scare the #@!& out of me. Over the years, I’ve developed a strategy to deal with this untamed group. Yet there are times I get roped into their evil web anyway. Did you know that kiosk people are the most aggressive sales force in history? Well, it’s true. Avoiding these crazed product pushers requires determination. Walk quickly. Never look up. Never make eye contact. Once they snag you, it’s all over. Surrender your wallet and hope for the best. Kiosk people are relentless. And mean. They prey on your weakness. They profit from deflating your ego. Their industry depends on your dry skin, swollen eyes and myriad personal flaws. In record time, they’ll zone in on all your insecurities. The holidays are the perfect time to strike. They’ll say anything to make you spend your hard-earned cash on miracle gels, eye creams, acne solutions, hair extensions and aromatic, microwavable neck pillows. All I can say is: Run! Run as fast as you can and don’t look back!
On home turf, I can usually handle kiosk people. In my own mall, I’m good. If I’ve had enough sleep, they can’t mess with me. “Not interested,” I bark. “Not today,” I scowl. “Security!” I holler. For me, the trouble starts when I find myself in an unfamiliar mall. That’s when I drop my defenses. I don’t know the lay of the land. I’m not on the look-out for anything but Starbucks and the ladies room, not necessarily in that order. I’m just too relaxed to anticipate an offer I can’t refuse.
Up in Santa Cruz, the birthplace of tranquility, I don’t expect the local mall to be a hotbed of intimidation. I barely step foot in the mall when a wiry character suddenly grabs my right hand and starts buffing my nails. “Whoa… what are you doing?” I ask. Watching off to the side, huge grins on their faces: my husband and sons. They can’t wait to see me put this guy in his place.
“Look closely at your nails. Very shiny, yes? Why get a manicure when you can buff and shine them yourself in under a minute? “I’m not interested, but thanks,” I say. “Okay. Fine. How about your hands? You want them to be silky smooth?” I look over at my spouse. I glance lovingly at my sons. Are they stepping in to save me from this nightmare? No. They are not. They are doubled over, laughing their guts out. I’m getting worked here. And they’re loving every minute.
"Give me your hand. Feel this? It is salt from the Dead Sea. You rub it on your hands, your feet, your elbows. Nice?” “Uh huh,” I agree, trying to reclaim my hand. Now he pours water over it, washing away the salt. "What a difference,” he informs me, slathering on imported lilac cream. “First the salt, then the cream. You need them both. Forty for the salt, forty five for the cream.” “That’s too much,” I suggest. “I never spend that much.” “I’ll give you both for $78. You won’t get a deal like this anywhere.”
Now my husband intervenes. He’s decided to put me out of my misery, on his own terms, of course. He starts negotiating as if buying a car. “$75 or we walk,” he says. Sold! The salesman takes the money, wraps up the purchase and we’re seconds from a clean getaway when he passes judgment on me one last time. “What do you do for those puffy eyes? I have something for you. I’ll give it to you for free. Unless you want to buy it.” “You’re pushing your luck now,” I snap. “Come back later if you want," he says. "I’m here till eight.”
Back in L.A., I salt my feet and cream up my heels and the bathroom floor gives way. I go sliding and zigzagging straight into the wall. I hold onto the towel rack. I curse the Dead Sea. I curse the character who sold me its silly saline. Yet I can’t ignore a recent and exciting development. My feet feel silky smooth, indeed. My hands are as soft as a baby's buttcheeks. And for that I’m grateful.
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