I See Your Sneaky Tactics and I Raise You a Real Relationship
or, It’s Not Manipulation, It’s Sales
a true story about being seen
As I pushed through the glass doors and entered the mall, my daughter served as a live commentator behind me, announcing in a theatrical voice a la 90s movie trailer: “She chooses to enter through the middle doors because she is the main character.”
I turned and laughed at her, loving the quirky way she observes the world and fully agreeing with her. Yes, I am the main character in my story.
We were at the mall to kill time—not because I like it. In fact, I hate the mall. It feels pretentious and shiny, especially after a full day of thrift stores (in which I bought myself TWO new (old) typewriters) and a book about Hollywood entertainers because it had three pages about John Travolta. I have my priorities firmly in check.
For an hour and a half we wandered aimlessly, commenting on dumb things we didn’t need in window displays designed to make us feel bad about our own appearance, but really just making me happy I don’t care even a little bit about trends.
Five minutes before the place shut down, we were heading for the exit when a man standing outside a beauty boutique called out to me with a free sample.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“I saw you pass earlier,” he called out. “Your skin is glowing. It’s gorgeous.”
“Thank you.”
“I just want a moment of your time. It’ll only take a moment. I have something for you.”
I respond to charm. You see, charm begets charm. I have a flirtatious personality and I like making people feel good about themselves, just as I like to receive kindness in return. I don’t think this is slimy or manipulative; exuding likeability is not a skill, it’s a lifestyle. (Okay, that sounds really gross, but the truth is that I like being likeable and it’s a huge source of my confidence.)
This man was small, barely taller than me, graced with his own gorgeous, glowing, tanned skin, and a thick accent he was leaning into with a soft earnestness that made me feel just a little bit sorry for him.
And so I went.
He led me into the shop. “Just take a seat here. I will only take a moment.”
I sat.
He gazed deeply into my eyes, and if he wasn’t gay, this might have been the moment we fell in love—a quintessential meet-cute.
“Tell me,” he said. “What is the routine that makes your skin so gorgeous?”
“Um… I wash my face and I use moisturizer?”
“Just moisturizer? What kind?”
“L’Oreal, I think.”
“L’Oreal? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
And then he launched into the magical pitch. He held my hand in his own very small, soft hand as he demonstrated a magical “gold” exfoliant and followed that up with “this gorgeously clean moisturizer,” all while asking about my life, telling me how there is no way in the world I could possibly be 45, and a compelling back and forth about Montreal and whether or not it really was like Europe. Then he wrapped it all up with a speech about how I am so deserving of investing in myself and how, for just $250, I could take the magical potions home with me.
“You’re very charming,” I said, “and very good at your job. But I am not going to buy this today.”
“But why not? Don’t you think you deserve it?”
“I deserve the world.”
“Of course you do! Why don’t you want this?”
“Price,” I said.
“How much do you pay for your moisturizer?”
“I don’t know. $25 maybe.”
He pulled out a calculator. $250 divided by 12. “Look,” he said. “You’d be saving money!”
I didn’t tell him that my little bottle of daily moisturizer actually lasts me around three months.
“When’s the last time you treated yourself?”
I didn’t tell him I’d just bought two typewriters earlier that day.
“When’s the last time you had a facial?”
“I’ve never had a facial,” I said. “I’ve never even been to a hairdresser.”
He fell back in his chair, hand against his chest as if I’d torn his heart in two.
“I’m the most low-maintenance woman you’ve ever met,” I added. Not for sympathy. This is something I’m really proud of.
“Don’t you do that,” he said. “Don’t you dare sell yourself short. You deserve it all.” He cupped my mammoth hand with his wee manicured paws.
“I know,” I said. And I really do know it.
He spun out of his chair and rushed to the back where he had a (fake) conversation with his manager before rushing back to me with a spring in his step.
“I like you,” he said. “You are fun and you deserve more than you give yourself. My manager is very happy with your energy. We’re going to give you 50% off today. And I’m going to take you in the back and give you a facial right now, plus a coupon for you to come back for another one in a month.”
“I like you too,” I said. “And you are very charming, but no, I am not going to buy this from you.”
Meanwhile…
Outside the shop, stores had closed their security gates and lights were dimming. My children waited patiently as I allowed a beautiful gay man to flirt with me. Someone at the cell phone kiosk gestured for my son to approach and then, in a conspiratorial undertone, said, “If you have any love for that lady, you’d better go pull her out of there.”
When my son entered the boutique, he appeared awkward and nervous. “You ready to head out soon?” he asked, interrupting us. “The mall is closed.”
I handed the beautifully packaged product back into the tiny hands of the beautifully packaged man. “Thank you,” I said. “You really are good at your job.”
Disappointment pulled a little colour from his cheeks. “You deserve this,” he said, already seeing his commission going down the drain.
“I know what I deserve,” I said—not condescendingly, but a little sad that this man’s charms were being wasted in such a place. “Have a good night.”
My children quizzed me for details about the strange interaction. I thanked my son for giving me an easy out. “I wasn’t ever going to buy,” I told them. “I know the tricks of charm.” I also understand how people might cave to the pressure. Thankfully, co-dependence is not one of my weaknesses. I was the wrong target for this poor guy who just wanted to meet his commission cap before the store closed.
“The phone kiosk guy told me to check their Google reviews,” my son shared, holding his own phone and quickly tapping into the search bar.
Review upon poor one-star review talked about the aggressive sales staff and how shoppers felt tricked into making a purchase. I get it. I just don’t fall for it.
Here’s where he totally got it wrong:
he pegged me as “worldly” —as someone who is so consumed by their appearance that they’d allow a fear of aging (Wrinkles? Gasp!) to convince them it’s appropriate to invest a grocery-store-visit amount of cash into an anti-aging product that actually didn’t even feel that good on my skin
he undermined my marriage with a “are you happy or are you married?” joke
he reduced me to my appearance when he asked what I did for a living — “Publishing? I would have guessed you were in fashion!” (Hahahaha! Sir, everything I’m wearing that you can see was thrifted, and this whole outfit cost less than one three month bottle of L’Oreal.)
I still walked away liking him, so at least he had that going. But he was never going to sell to me. Why? Because I am the main character. I make my own choices. And I will never be charmed into something I don’t really need, no matter how flattering or preciously small-handed a salesperson might be.
One of the gorgeous typewriters I picked up that day. Pink!
When it comes right down to it, I work in sales too. Anyone running a business is working in sales. And it’s the worst. But what I won’t do is ploy you with empty platitudes.
Zoom in for an intimate look at my (gasp) eye wrinkles! 😆
When I got home that night, I studied my face in the mirror and I tried to find the “glowing gorgeous skin” he gushed about. I couldn’t see it. I just saw skin. Freckles. Wrinkles around my eyes. That dry spot on my forehead that never seems to go away. My skin isn’t gorgeous. The personality that leaks out around my smile is. That’s my selling feature. That’s my “Verified” stamp. That’s what I’m going to rely on when you decide you want to work with me.
When we meet on Zoom, I will be charming.
If we meet in the real world, I’m going to make direct eye contact and make you feel seen and heard.
Why? Because human connection is the only way to guarantee results. Had I succumbed to the charms of that salesman, he would have been momentarily satisfied and then I would never see him again. Should someone choose to work with me, it will first be because they like and trust me, and it will continue because I will demonstrate that I like them on an ONGOING BASIS. This isn’t a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am operation I’m running here. This is a guts and glory situation. And by glory, I mean the down and dirty business of reciprocal hard work.
The publishing world isn’t for the faint at heart and it certainly isn’t for the person who doesn’t believe they have the charm to sell. Writing a book is easy. Selling a book is impossible without a tremendous amount of tenacity, perseverance, and incredibly thick (gorgeous glowing) skin. These principles aren’t just empty talk—they’re the foundation of how I approach every client relationship. (If you’re curious about what drives my work, I've outlined my core values here.)
If you’re looking for a teammate to help push you to the next level of your writing or publishing journey, I’d love to chat! Feel free to book a consultation, or even go so far as setting up regular mentoring check-ins to keep you on track. If you need a cheerleader, my wisdom and charm is ready to help you be the main character in your own story.
