Girls With Glasses Need Not Apply

Digital ary collage by Stella Kalaw

I have a weakness for job ads. They cry out to me from cluttered bulletin boards, shop windows, newspapers, and nowadays, electronic postings. At first, it was the thrill of earning my own money, then the hunt for the next novel experience. But now, at my age?

The first ad I responded to was for a Christmas seasonal position at the Hudson’s Bay Company as a part-time salesperson of men’s electric razors. The advertisement read something like this:

“We are looking for an enthusiastic and client-focused bilingual part-time employee to assist customers in choosing the perfect electric razor. You will be responsible for demonstrating the features of our electric razors, answering questions, and ensuring a great shopping experience. If you love meeting people, this is the job for you. Help us introduce the future of grooming to the modern man!”

Knowing nothing of retail, razors, or men, I was hired. I must have been sixteen, with a polyester blouse tucked into my pencil skirt, long straight dark hair swinging, and a desire to earn money so I could hit the mall. Apart from hours of standing, the work was simple, pulling out the shiny sleek razors, demonstrating their numerous features, and closing the deal. My hourly wage was $1.50 per hour, but oh, the elation of that first paycheck.

Other want ads continued to beckon. For several summers in the 1970s as a university student, I toiled in women’s high-end fashion boutiques.

One such family business was run by Gloria, a loud, unpleasant woman, with over-rouged cheeks and an elaborate blonde hairdo, and her party-loving daughter Linda. As their sole employee, my tasks were to keep the clothing collection in good order and help customers. But my key role was to heap exaggerated praise on the customers when they emerged from the change room to observe themselves in the mirror.

Gloria coached me to say: “Oh wow, fabulous, sensational, it makes your eyes pop, you look so thin,” and other assorted nonsense. If I were not effusive enough, she would frown, and her disapproval sometimes extended to a sharp pinch on my arm.

One day, Gloria cooed, “Carol, just try on this knit dress—it will suit you. I’ll give you a discount!” Soon, my meager wages went to outfitting myself in overly sophisticated suits and dresses.

I confess this was the only job I have ever been fired from. Linda’s boyfriend took to hanging about the shop too often, asked me out for coffee, and sealed my fate. One morning, Linda pulled up at my parents’ house in her spiffy red sports car to give me notice and demand the keys to the store. As I tossed her the keys and she screeched down the road, my career in fashion ended.

I began scouring the want ads again and was intrigued by an ad for hostesses at the 1976 Montreal Olympics. No girls with glasses need apply!

My interests at the time ran to gloomy French literature, English poetry and smoking Gauloises. I had no interest in sports, but it was a prestigious job. I applied, popped in my contact lenses, and landed the job. I spent the early summer in Montreal, where I had my training, and in Kingston, where I was assigned to the sailing events. The hourly rate was an outrageous amount for a student in 1976: $17 per hour!

Beyond the red polyester hostess uniform—a striped cotton shirt in Olympic colours, paired with a mid-calf skirt, flowing red rain cape, matching turban hat, red handbag, and plastic arm bangles in Olympic colours—what do I remember of that summer? The thrill of visiting the chic boutiques on Crescent and Mountain Streets, people-watching and riding the still new and shiny Montreal metro, built for Expo 67.

The sailing facility at Portsmouth Harbour was adjacent to the gloomy maximum security federal Kingston Penitentiary, whose turrets were painted a cheery blue for the Olympics.

I remember Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip touring our Olympic centre, the Queen wearing a feathered hat, her distant wave, and Prince Philip’s curiosity in our work. Thank goodness I had paid attention during my training in curtsying! My proudest moment was when I was asked to substitute for the Spanish interpreter who could not be found following the Spanish sailing team’s surprise silver medal win.

When the Olympics ended, I helped pack up, and the international journalists and athletes moved on to their next gig. The circus had come to town, and I longed to keep travelling with it.

Eventually, the want ads took a back seat to a career in federal public policy and program work.

But lo and behold, an intriguing ad this week.

“Do you enjoy meeting and talking to people? Come volunteer in Spain! Participants from all over the world exchange English conversation with Spaniards —in return for full board and lodging at a Spanish resort.”

Even now, long after any worries about where my next paycheck is coming from, I still find it hard to resist a well-worded want ad.