The memoirs class I’ve been teaching at my local library wrapped up last Tuesday. The assignment from the previous class was to write a memory that involved conversation of some sort. I decided I might as well fulfill the assignment myself, so I got around to writing about something that happened well more than a dozen years ago.
The class members enjoyed it, so I thought I’d share it with you as well.
Whiskers - by Fran Stewart © 2017
Sixteen or seventeen years ago, I decided (for some bizarre reason) to attend an Atlanta sewing expo. I, who am not a fan of crowds, found myself engulfed by thousands of women. I, who am a mediocre seamstress at best, was surrounded by women wearing phenomenal outfits they had created for themselves.
I wandered, eyes agog, for several hours until I found a display that must have been thirty feet long, made up of wide tables end to end, covered in sewing implements, scissors, knives, pliers, tweezers. Ha! Stop right there. Tweezers! Just what I needed!
The man behind the display was busy with another customer about twenty feet from me. I waited until he was free and then motioned him toward me. When he was close, I leaned as far across the display table as I could and said in as low a voice as I could, “I’m looking for a really good pair of tweezers. I have this … uh … this whisker that I can’t seem to grab hold of.”
“You have a whisker?” His voice boomed across the crowds.
I cringed. Was the man deaf? Did he have no consideration for my embarrassment?
“I have the perfect tweezer for whiskers!” He motioned me to follow him a bit farther down the table, booming all the way. “This’ll pull out any whisker you can imagine!”
By the time we reached the section he had in mind, at least a dozen women surrounded me and more were pouring in. A tall, emaciated-looking woman to my left spoke up. “Tweezers? That’s just what I need.”
“They’ll work wonders on your whiskers,” he shouted.
Another woman reached across in front of me. “I’ll take a pair.”
“Give me two pairs.” A gaudily garbed older woman held up her hand. “Both my daughters could use them. No, wait! Give me three!”
Fortunately, after he sold maybe two dozen tweezers to all the other women, he handed a pair to me and winked. Talk about a salesman.
And the tweezers? I still have them, and they still work wonders.
Now -- how would you like to write one of those stories you've held inside for years? No time like the present!