Mr. Rough Hands resists pitch
DOROTHY L. HARRISI was enjoying my mocha coconut and didn't see him at first. Suddenly, he was insisting I take a sample packet. I smiled and started to pluck it from his hands as I walked on, but he knew what he was doing. Still maintaining his grasp, he said he wanted to show me something.
Published: June 21, 2012
Published: June 21, 2012
I tried refusing, but he was already steering me to the kiosk. The crew could only watch in amusement as the young man began to grill me about my cleansing habits.
"Really, isn't that a bit personal," I replied. "I only just met you."
Sensing defeat, he switched his focus to Mr. Harris and began asking him what products he uses on his hands.
We chicks dissolved in laughter, which the sales guy almost took as teasing for his thick accent. "Oh no," I assured him, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing at the question!" Mr. Harris shot me one of his looks and I knew we were in trouble.
He started cracking jokes about keeping his hands nice and smooth, but the sales guy wasn't swayed. He kept talking, taking Mr. Harris' coffee from him as he waved a young gal over.
"This is getting good," my daughter whispered. The pretty lady put a death grip on Mr. Harris, preventing him from escaping, all while smoothly questioning us about the Dead Sea.
"You mean like the not alive, but Dead Sea," my darling husband answered, shooting me a naughty look.
"Yes," she replied, scooping large granules of genuine, fresh from the Dead Sea salt into his hands. By this time I was nearly snorting my coffee.
Mr. Harris gave her an incredulous look as she schmoozed on about health benefits, giving him no choice but to follow directions and scrub his hands with the product. She then started squirting water, leaving his hands with a lovely sheen of ick. Knowing how much Mr. Harris hates anything on his hands, we gals were nearly dying by this point.
"You can use this over your whole body," she said in a husky voice. Shooting us a grin, he teased back, "Does it come in a five-gallon bucket?"
She was good. She didn't even react to his wisecracks. "Look at the impurities," she insisted.
"If you want impurities, I should have finished tearing down an engine before I came to the mall," he added.
"Doesn't it feel good?" she asked with a sexy hum.
"No," he replied. "It feels disgusting, like I'm covered in oil and it's not even the good kind of oil."
"You are exfoliating," she insisted. "Ex-foli-what-ing?" he questioned.
Still trying to convince him, she crooned over how good his hands felt. "No they don't feel good, they feel all greasy," he replied. "Can I go wash this off somewhere?"
By now I was almost crying so I missed the sneak attack. The first guy snatched my coffee away and started piling up containers. "This is all for you today," he insisted.
"I'm not buying," I kept replying, but he wasn't taking no for an answer. I finally put my foot and the products down. "We are not spending money!"
"Why are you at a mall if you are not spending money?" He seemed genuinely perplexed. "Your husband, he likes rough hands and not spending money?"
Laughing, we admitted this to be true, then escaped to the restroom so Mr. Cheap Rough Hands could wash up. Who knew an afternoon at the mall could be so much fun?