Salespitches in NYC

By Rachel Sokol/Greenwich Village Gazette

ast week, in the midst of our horrible rainstorm, I found myself running errands all over Manhattan for both business and pleasure. By 6:00pm, I was exhausted, tired and hungry. All I wanted to do was relax for a half-hour before heading home to my apartment. All I needed was a quiet, dry place to sit.

I found a small, empty Starbucks on the corner of Park and 26th. Perfect.

Fiiiiiiiinallly, I could read my NY POST and the next few chapters of, "The DaVinci Code," in peace and quiet. I was exhausted from work, dripping wet from the rain, and wanted to do nothing but sit down and clear my head. I ordered a tea and sat at the corner table. It was so obvious I did not want to be bothered.

I was completely engrossed in my book until I noticed a man standing in front of me. He put his hands on the chair across from me and started drumming his hands on the rim. I looked up. He was well-dressed and clean cut and I thought he was going to ask me if he could use my extra chair.

"Hi, there," he said, sitting down in the chair. "Are you from around here?"

Confused, I said, "Um, yeah?" Not the most brilliant response, but I was a little suspicious.

"You have such fabulous hair. Do you get it done professionally? I can get you an amazing deal on your hair, skin and nails. You want to be pampered for a discount?" he asked me, in a pushy way.

Oh, no, no, no. This was a sales pitch! This man was one of those salon lackey’s who gets paid by the hour to lure tourists (I am not a tourist) into giving them credit card information in exchange for a "salon makeover." As a native New Yorker, I know to stay far away from these annoying salespeople. They just want to make a buck off me, and I’m too street smart to let them coax me into anything. I am such a glutton for these ‘salespeople’ people since I have a baby-face and a giggly laugh.

I realized he was carrying a black briefcase. Still standing in front of me, he pulls out a gawdy pamphlet, splashed with ‘models’ on the front. He hands me a pamphlet.

"No, thank you," I told him politely.

"You really should look at what Astara Salon has to offer. You want your hair done with a discount, right? RIGHT. Absolutely. And we are the VERY best." He proceeds to shove the pamphlet in my face. It’s a cheap-looking brochure with some prices listed on it. It looks as if it was designed by a middle-school student. Juvenile. I hand it back to him.

"No, thank you," I tell him again, politely; turning back to my book.

He covers my page in my book with the pamphlet. I immediately look up at him and shake my head. I’m NOT giving into this sales pitch and I want him to know it.

But he is relentless. "Just take a look. We offer haircuts, manicures, pedicures, everything for pampering and I think you’re a perfect candidate—"

"No, thanks. I’m just not interested." I hand him the pamphlet again and start to gather up my stuff. He moves across the table and grabs my backpack, shoving the pamphlet in my face yet again. He is literally shaking the paper in my face and has one hand on my backpack. I’m shocked and immediately on-guard. "Come on. This is a fabulous deal. For just sixty dollars you get a pedicure, manicure and facial. All I need is your credit-card: We take Visa, Mastercard—" his voice is still smooth but forceful. I yank my bag out of his grip.

"Look, I’m not interested—" I start to stand up, and he leans in closer to me. I’m trapped in the corner table at Starbucks and can’t walk around him. This is not good.

"How much do you pay for your hair? Our services are top of the line, we use amazing products, you’ll be the envy of your friends…you’ll land the perfect guy….you’ll have hair that belongs in magazines…in shampoo commercials…and you’ll have glowing, luxurious skin for just sixty bucks."

I roll my eyes. "Can I go? I know this is a scam. I’m leaving," I step forward; and he won’t step back.

"Look, this is an amazing offer: haircut, pedicure, manicure, facial. All I need is your credit card. Just hand that over to me and we can make an appointment. Okay? Good, right? You look like a Visa girl. Am I right?"

"That’s none of your business," I tell him, scooping up my pocketbook and my umbrella.
"Goodbye."

I try to step around him this time, but he’s still blocking my way. My only choice is to crawl under the table or kick him in-between the legs.

Too bad I don’t believe in violence.

"Rach—wait."

Rach? Rach???? Okay, buddy…NOBODY is allowed to call me ‘Rach’ or Ray unless they are my friend or a family member. A pet peeve of mine is when a complete stranger starts to call me, "Rach." I realized he must have seen my name written on the scrap paper I was using as a bookmark for my book. I had doodled my name on it.

"Look—I’m not interested. Really, I’m not." I’m not giving this guy my credit card information for some random salon treatment. I’ll be lucky if I can pay Con Ed next month…

"This is an amazing opportunity, Rachel. Pampering from head to toe. We are the best salon. All you have to do is put down a deposit—" by now, I am curious to see how far he’ll take his sales pitch. I like watching him squirm. I have immediately decided I am going to write an article about him.

Then, to my horror, he whips out a cell phone and continues to block my path toward the exit. "Look, I’ll just call the salon right now if you want, and I’ll let them take your credit card info over the phone. Here, I’ll call them right now…just give me your credit card."

He is still standing in front of me and still shoving a pamphlet in my face. I try and catch the eye of the Starbucks employees as a silent pray for help. One of the employees notices the annoying man and just gives me a sympathetic look. Thanks a lot, buddy.

"So, just hand me your card info, Rach, and we can book you the ultimate salon experience. Sound peachy?"

"Look—MOVE. Please? Go annoy someone else. I’m not giving you anything. Let me go." I almost knock the cell phone out of his hand, but I decide not to at the last second. This time I step OVER him, and my hips brush against his as I dash out. UGH. But he blocks my exit again, and I’m still cornered.

"I get five girls a day to sign up for my salon. Really. They are so impressed and they love the treatment…here, I’ll call the salon, and you can give them your credit card info…"

I want to tell him to ‘eff’ off. I want to tell him to ‘bite me.’ But I can’t be mean. I just can’t. I’ve tried. It’s like trying to squeeze an apple in the palm of your hand. It’s impossible for me to be nasty.

He shoves the pamphlet into my face again and shakes it at me, this time he jabs at the cheesey logo/picture on the front cover. "You’ll be making a huge mistake if you don’t register for a salon session with Astara. This is an amazing opportunity. Really, just give me your credit card…" He reaches for my bag again; and I pull it away and step forward with force. He quickly blocks my path again. I hate this cat-and-mouse game.

Finally, I yank a pamphlet from his hand and crinkle it up, tossing it on to the floor. "Can you leave me alone now? Get a clue!"

He gives me a dirty look, than a look of horror passes over his face. He picks up the wrinkled pamphlet and shrugs.

"You mean you let me talk all this time and you don’t even end up signing up? What the hell? Seriously, what the hell?" he asks me. Sorry, but I have no answer. I ignore him—what, the first nine times he didn’t get the hint?—and walk out into the rain, leaving Mr. Sales Pitch behind. As I’m leaving Starbucks, I see him approach another girl sitting at a corner table. Through the window, I can make out his words, "….Oh my god, you’ve got such great hair…"

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