When I stepped into the wedding dress salon, my heart was pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. This was a big moment for me—the very first time I was setting foot inside a bridal salon, the first time I’d get to try on wedding dresses. After all the years and all the waiting, today was finally my day.
But deep down, I knew this moment might not be as perfect as I wanted. I’m 55 years old, Hispanic, and proudly myself. I didn’t fit the usual bridal picture the salespeople were probably used to. I could almost see the stereotype they’d pinned on me before I even spoke. Still, I refused to let anyone ruin this for me.
The salon sparkled like a palace. Gleaming marble floors reflected the shimmering chandeliers above. It was exactly how I had imagined it from pictures online—luxurious and beautiful. Rows of stunning gowns hung everywhere I looked, each one so different and more beautiful than the last. I couldn’t wait to start pulling dresses off the racks to try on.
But the moment I walked further inside, something changed in the air.
Two saleswomen in sharp black uniforms glanced at me and whispered to each other, their eyes sizing me up like I was some unexpected guest crashing their world. I caught the way they looked me over — just a little too long, with clear judgment. I felt their skepticism like a cold breeze.
One of them, a tall blonde with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, suddenly came up beside me.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone dripping with fake politeness.
I smiled politely. “Yes, I’d like to try on some dresses. Lace would be my first choice, but I’m open to anything that flatters my figure.”
Her eyebrows shot up as if I’d just asked to buy the whole store.
“Uh, well, these dresses are very delicate,” she said, emphasizing delicate like I didn’t understand. “You should be careful… try not to touch them with your… hands.”
I blinked, confused. My hands? I glanced down. My hands looked like the hands of someone who worked hard, someone who had stories in every line.
“My hands are clean,” I said slowly.
She smirked, like she found my answer amusing.
“I just meant the dresses are expensive, ma’am. Maybe you should look at something more affordable. We do have a small clearance section. It’s not much, but you might find something there.”
Before I could respond, another saleswoman, a brunette with a tight ponytail that looked like it could choke her, joined in.
“Yeah, we have some clearance dresses in the back. They’re from last season, but probably in your price range,” she said with a sneer.
I clenched my jaw but smiled through it all.
“No, I want to try this one,” I said, pointing to a lace gown on a mannequin right in front of me.
The blonde’s eyes went wide and she chuckled softly. “Are you sure? That dress is over $10,000. It might be a bit much for someone like you.”
The condescension hit me hard, but I didn’t let it show. They thought they had me all figured out—an older Hispanic woman without expensive taste or money. Maybe they thought I was a maid with those comments about my hands. Just another out-of-place customer.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
Then, just like that, John, the salon manager, appeared from the back. He was sharp in a black suit and had a smile that seemed to hide something. His eyes flicked between me and the saleswomen, and I could tell he sensed something was wrong.
“What’s going on here, girls?” he asked, his voice firm.
Before I could answer, the blonde quickly spoke up. “Oh, nothing, John. Just making sure our gowns stay safe. This lady was looking at the more expensive dresses, and you told us to watch how they’re handled.”
She thought she was being clever. John, on the other hand, looked furious. His face darkened.
“This lady?” he asked sharply. “You mean Ms. Morales? Soon-to-be Mrs. Shepherd? The new owner of this salon?”
The saleswomen froze. Shock took over their faces.
“Wait, what?” the blonde stammered. “I thought the owner was some old Mr. Thomas?”
“Mr. Shepherd, Ashley!” John barked. “He’s Ms. Morales’ fiancé. She’s taken over the store. You’d know that if you paid attention to anything besides yourselves!”
The room was silent, the saleswomen stunned and speechless, suddenly realizing who they’d been talking down to. Their smugness disappeared like smoke.
“I’m tempted to fire you both right now!” John growled. “But what if she wasn’t the owner? Would you still treat customers like this?”
I shook my head. “John, don’t fire them. Not yet.”
“Are you sure, ma’am?” he asked.
I nodded firmly, turning back to the two girls. Their confidence was gone, replaced by something much sweeter—fear.
“Instead of firing you, Ashley,” I said, pointing at the blonde, “you’re going to be my personal assistant for the next month. Thomas and I have a lot to prepare before the wedding.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“P-personal assistant?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Yes. You’re going to learn what this business is really about. You will serve every customer with respect, no matter who they are, how they dress, or where they come from. This job isn’t about pushing expensive dresses; it’s about making brides feel beautiful. We don’t just sell dresses—we make dreams come true.”
The room felt heavy with the weight of my words. John nodded silently, not daring to argue.
“And what about me?” the brunette asked nervously. “I’m Matilda, by the way.”
“Matilda,” I said, looking her in the eye, “you’re going to do the same, but your focus will be on learning everything about our dresses. Every fabric, every style, every veil. You’ll become an expert in this salon.”
I paused, letting the seriousness sink in.
“Do I make myself clear?”
Both of them nodded quickly.
“So… what now?” Ashley asked, still shaken.
“Now,” I said with a smile, “you get me some champagne and ask what kind of dress I want, Ashley.”
She dashed away to the curtained dressing area, bringing me a glass of champagne. Matilda hurried to the lace section and pulled the same gown I’d pointed at from the rack.
“What do you think, Matilda?” I asked, holding up the lace dress. “Will it suit me?”
Matilda looked at me quietly, as if figuring out how to respond.
“I think you’ll look beautiful in anything, ma’am,” she said softly. “But a sweetheart neckline would suit you better. It would highlight your shoulders.”
“Much better, Matilda,” I smiled sincerely.
I knew this was just the beginning. I’d have my hands full with these two girls, but they needed to learn. And I was ready for the challenge.
As for me? I still had one very important mission—finding the perfect wedding dress.
What would you have done if you were in my shoes?
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