When I received my bridesmaid dress in the mail for my friend Angela's wedding, I was excited to see that it fit everywhere except for the length. Being a towering 5'0", I'm used to having to hem most of my pants, jeans, etc. myself, but when I realized that I needed to take the dress up 6 inches, I decided this was a job for a professional. After a getting a few referrals, I took the little black dress to a tailor down the street. My first visit to his shop was normal, and when he asked for my phone number I didn't think twice as he said he would call me when my dress was finished.
Two weeks passed and no word about my dress, so I decided to drop in when I was running errands in town one day. I walked in the door and was greeted with, "Oh, I remember you. Black cocktail dress, right?" He grabbed the garment and asked me to try it on. I slipped on the dress and coordinating shoes and stepped out of the dressing room hoping that I would be pleasantly surprised when I looked in the mirror. The reflection was perfect. "That dress fits you in all the right places," he said as he walked up behind me. He began to take his hands and smooth out all of the wrinkles on my gown, and then his hands began to roam to places where there were none. I began to get concerned. "Surely, this guy isn't doing what I think he is doing," I thought to myself, "he's old enough to be my father, or even my grandfather." Nevertheless, I was dutiful and polite (good manners are always in good taste), and complimented him on his work. "Turn around, I need to see you from the front." He grabbed my hand and spun me around on the platform. "This is a great dress for dancing. Do you dance?" He forcefully grabbed my other hand and began to move me about into a little shimmy. "I do go out dancing with my friends from time to time," I replied, wanting to be honest but vague. "You must come out dancing with me. I would love to have you on my arm." "Well, thank you for the invitation, but this dress is for a wedding, not for dancing," I said, hoping he would get the hint. "When the wedding is over, come dancing with me." And then it happened. . . he kissed me. His iron grip on my hands grew even stronger and the old man pulled me into his chest, and as if it happened in slow motion, I turned my head so that his lips landed on my cheek. I squished my fingers through his fists and dashed back into the dressing room.
I changed into my street clothes and regrettably walked over to the counter to pay. I handed him the dress to hang and put in a garment bag. He began asking me a barrage of questions: "Do you live close buy? Do you live alone or with friends? Do you work in the area? Do you model?" "Yes, alone, yes, wait. . . model? You've got to be joking. Okay, this is just plain creepy," I said in my head. I simply responded, "I would like to pay now." "Not until you answer my questions," he said tauntingly holding my dress captive just out of arms reach. "Would you model for me? I will make you clothes and and you can put them on and I will take pictures of you." The dialogue in my mind continued, "This just went from plain creepy to holy crap this guy is going to kill me creepy. Angela better know how much I love her to risk my life for her wedding." I pulled out a card from my wallet and slid the piece of plastic to his side of the counter. "I am not model, but that's very kind of you to say. May I please have my dress?" He picked up the card and said, "Oooh, I like your style." "Please just give me my dress," I desperately said, "I have a lot of errands to run." Finally he surrendered my gown and my credit card and wished me on my way. As I practically sprinted out the door, he called out to me, "Don't forget about the dancing, I've got your phone number."
Immediately I called my one of my friends to relay the bizarre encounter. "It happened again!" I exclaimed, "some creepy old guy hit on me." She simply replied, "Wait, were you at the grocery store again?"