Not another one, I thought to myself as we passed yet another prom dress store. They are clearly distinguishable, prom dress stores. They are overflowing with dresses of intense colour, colours you could never pull off wearing on a regular school day. The reds are intense, and the blues, vibrant. And they layer dresses with ridiculous colour combinations, like primary yellow satin with aqua blue crinoline. Besides the colours, they use fabrics that are particular to this type of store too. Shiny silks and sparkly sequins beckon shoppers from far away. This must appeal to a large number of people, or else they wouldn’t have 7 prom dress stores in one mall. But not me. In fact, every time I pass one of these extravagant stores, my gaze diverts and my feet trot straight past those screaming sequins. Nonetheless, as we approach the store of ridiculous colours, my Mom begs, “Just one more store. It can be our last one. Just think: this could be the place you find the dress!” Feet dragging and only half committed, I follow her into the store.
I run my hands along a rack of dresses, feeling textures silky and scratchy. My eyes search the store, but do not stop to rest on anything. A couple minutes have passed when I decide to find my mother; my subtle way of hinting that I’m ready to leave. She’s staring captivatedly at a dress that hangs above our heads. It’s frilly, and beaded, and is made of this wispy, rough material. And worst of all, it does that ugly layering technique that the store seems to endorse. I furrow my eye brows, “Really?” I ask her.
“Yes. Try it on, just for me. Please?” With impeccable timing, the sales lady strides over to us with a tall pole in her hand.
“Can I get you ladies a dress?” She’s an older lady, with short dark hair. Her clothing is dark and plain, but she wears a bright red lipstick. The expression on her face is lively and eager.
“Yes, my daughter would like to try on this dress, right up here.”
“Sure, what size would you like?”
“Small,” my mother spits out, before I even have time to speak for myself. I trudge to the back of the crowded store, where women and girls are buzzing over the dresses with excitement. The sales lady gives me an encouraging smile before she moves out of the way to let me into the change room.
I stare at myself in the mirror, with my coat on. My posture slumps as I look at my hair that has become a mess from trying on many pieces of clothing. I remember my unshaven legs and let out a deflated grunt. It’s never a good idea to go shopping when you don’t look nice; it colours your outlook on every piece of clothing you try. I’m hot and tired, and I sway as I wait for the motivation to try on this dress I already know I won’t like, to come. I nod at myself in the mirror, let’s get this over with.
Once the dress is on, I brace myself for disappointment. I move to position myself before the mirror, hoping to absorb the brunt of the shock before presenting myself to my mother, the sales lady, and all the other women that are bustling around outside the stall door.
My eye brows lift as I take in my appearance. The dress’ colours are conflicting and it is much fancier than anything I would have picked out myself, but it hugs at the waist and accentuates my collar bones in a flattering way. I fix my hair and straighten my shoulders, then turn to look at the back of the dress. “Hmm.” My lips curl upwards and my foot pops in a picturesque pose.
“Are you ready?” my Mom asks from outside the door.
“Yah, I guess,” I say. I unlock the door and step out of the stall. I am startled to see the dark haired sales lady standing where I expect to see my Mom. She lets out a gasp and her jaw hangs slightly open as she looks me over.
“This looks gorgeous on you!” she says, eyes wide. I wonder if they’re paid to make comments like that, and then I dismiss the thought because the compliments feel better when you tell yourself they mean it. I move in front of the big mirror they have outside the change rooms for a second look. My Mom’s hands are clasped in her lap and her expression is pleased.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Well, it’s alright. It looks nice, but it’s not really my style,” I say. The sales lady is still watching me, and from behind my shoulder she asks,
“What kind of dress were you looking for?”
“Maybe something white,” I say. I am ready to elaborate, but she has already dropped the dress she was holding and gone in search of the perfect white dress. Before I know it, there are 4, similar white dresses awaiting me in the stall. My apathy from earlier has melted into a flattered, soft attitude. I decide to humour the sales ladies, and my mother, by trying on the numerous dresses they toss over the stall door. They coo and they gasp and they squeal and they cluck. They clamp and they fluff and they pat and they pull. Despite my Mom’s hopes and the sales lady’s effective confidence boosting, I leave the store thoroughly amused and dressless.
