I worked with the web development team at sephora.com for a month in August 2009. It was for less than half my hourly rate, but my unemployment claim had run out and you do what you have to do. I was a content manager helping them re-swatch every damn shade of any colored makeup they carry, so we’re talking millions of colors.
The place was 95% female. Hundreds of employees on several floors of multiple expensive downtown SF buildings populated by So Many Women. The IT department and the mailroom are where the guys hid. I can only imagine what it was like for them. There was a dress code because apparently office-bound people working for an international cosmetic company can become vicious fashionistas. Even though the dress code was only about colors (red, black, white, gray), I still felt pretty repressed.
Most of the art people and design women I met were pretty OK. The product managers were absolutely girlie-girls who squealed with delight when some celebrity (I had to look up her name online and forgot it justthatfast) was in the office to discuss her new perfume. Ahem … fragrance line. Their voices went to octaves mine did not. They actually cared about designer clothers and used cosmetics. I did not belong there. We all knew it. But I did my job and they liked that, so it was fine.
Near the end of my assignment, there was a panic because one vendor had failed to provide most of their line by the date we needed. My manager talked to Some Important Executive and they decided that the best course of action was for someone to go into one of the retail outlets and buy the missing products. I just happened to hear the end of the conversation and volunteered to do the deed. Paid time out of the office? Score!
The next morning, I hit the Union Square store armed with a 10-page (10-point, single spaced) list. A giant spreadsheet of eyeliner, blush, foundation, eye shadow, lipstick, mascara, and so on. It was right at opening, so they weren’t busy, and when I told them the mission, their commission-based eyes lit right up. All we had to do was find the stuff, get a total, and the main office would call with the credit card number. The assistant store manager called two clerks to help me. Using that immense list, we sorted through every damn display, drawer, and storage cabinet of that vendor’s products and filled basket after basket. Must have been thousands of dollars of products. Two hours into the process I got a call from my boss. There had been a change of plans. I was told to wrap it up and come in because they weren’t going to actually buy the stuff after all. I’m a terrible liar, so I politely excused myself, told them that they’d be getting a call from Corporate, and scampered my ass right out of there. At the bus stop toward downtown, I felt horrible. I worked retail in college. I knew the thrill of a huge sale and the sadness of a return. But these clerks were certain it was a final sale, so their joy was unfettered.
Later that day, my boss had to make the really hard call to the store and tell them to put it all back. She got ripped a new asshole by the store manager and told never to darken their doorstep again. I still felt so bad I nearly sent flowers to the store with an apology letter.
Shortly after that, I quit the job. I left two weeks before my contract was supposed to end, but I got an offer from another client that paid more than triple what sephora.com was paying me. Again, you do what you have to do. Despite the lack of notice (I came in early that morning, wrapped up what I could, and told them I was out of there), my boss completely understood.
Fast-forward a month or so: late September. I was at Brews on the Bay with Dave. BoTB is an annual local-brewers beer fest on the WW2 liberty ship the SS Jeremiah O’Brien (terrible site – you can tell it’s run by volunteers). BoTB is a day spent listening to bad music, drinking as much beer as you can, and climbing all over this beautiful 1940s ship. Near the end of the day, as I’m waiting for the single-occupancy bathroom in one of the narrow halls of the ship’s interior, a girl emerges. She looks a little familiar. We do the SF half-smile as we pass and the mental checklist to determine why we might know each other. I finish up and emerge to find her waiting with other friends in line.
Her: “Do I know you?”
Me: “I’m not sure.”
Her: “Do you work near Union Square?”
**In my drunken brain, an alarm goes off.**
Me: “Ooooooohhhh. No, I don’t. But you may have seen me there recently. I stick out a little in that area.”
Her (realizing it): “Hey – you came into Sephora a month ago to buy all this stuff that we had to put back!”
Me: “Heh, yeah. I’m so sorry about that. Things got complicated.”
Her: “It’s OK. The store manager was pissed, but we got over it.”
Me: “Well, tell everyone that was there that day I’m sorry and I appreciated all their help.”
Her: “No worries.”
So… 1) you never know who you’re going to see again, even in a city of 750,000 people 2) it’s never too late to say you’re sorry 3) don’t work anywhere with a dress code because it speaks to a darker, more sinister aspect of the place, and 4) There actually are people out there who say “oh em gee!” ::shudder::
