Last week I took a grey crinkly skirt to Ros. He’s the Russian tailor whose prices are astronomical, but he never disappoints. I could shop among the clothes he has hanging in his large tailoring room. All high quality. All designer. All very chic. Just like his clientele. Ros is great. He gives honest opinions, and knows his craft. He’ll even admit when something is not worth having tailored.
This morning I go over to pick up the skirt. Perfect. The shorter length makes it even cooler than it was when I first bought it two years ago. I love it.
The next stop is the other tailor. He’s a non-English speaking Chinese man who sits in the front of a neighborhood cleaners and does his work. He does not have a separate tailoring room. He appears to be a quiet, gentle man. The Chinese woman who takes in the cleaning and prints out the receipts acts as his interpreter. I don’t know if they are married, blood relatives, or just co-workers. It doesn’t matter. I go to him when I’m in a hurry (he’s only a block away compared to Ros’s being about a mile away), or, when I don’t think an item is worth spending much money on. That was the case with four camisoles I took in on Monday to have the straps made shorter, and a ¾ length orange skirt that I bought at Maxwell’s several years ago, and still looks great (it has an elastic waist and ornate cut-outs on the bottom).
These clothes were tailored and delivered yesterday; this morning I try them on. The camisoles are fine. Then I try on the skirt. Before, it was just an inch or two too large around the waist; today when I put it on it just about drops to my knees. It’s actually gotten bigger. Seriously. The elastic waist is totally stretched out. I bring it back to the cleaners and the tailor is not there yet; instead, I have an inane conversation with his interpreter.
I try to explain that the skirt is now bigger than it was when I first brought it in. I try it on for her. It’s obviously meant for a person about 60 pounds larger than I am. She says, in barely passable English, “not our fault, but don’t worry, we fix.” All I want is my money back. I’ve lost all faith. But she is adamant, “No money back. We make it good.” Clearly, they don’t know what they are doing. They took in the sides of the skirt but not the elastic waist. But now I’m invested for $25. I’m told to, “Talk to him. He comes at 1pm.” “But he doesn’t speak any English,” I plead.” “That’s ok. I explain.”
I return around 1:30. This time the tailor is in. The cashier woman describes my problem. They conclude that the solution is to take the skirt in another two inches on each side. I try to explain that this won’t fix the problem. As good as Weight Watchers is, my waist has not shrunk four inches since Monday.
So here’s the scene. I am arguing (albeit calmly) with the woman, trying to explain that just taking the skirt in again will not fix the problem. I don’t want them to touch my skirt again. They have exacerbated (though I of course do not use this word) the problem I started with. That all I want is my money back. $25. The diminutive tailor has his back to us. He’s working quietly at his sewing machine. But when he hears the words money back he literally leaps out of his chair and turns on me. Apparently these are words he understands. He screams, “No money back. No money back.” Then I stupidly start arguing with him. A man who speaks no English. This is not going well. He is ranting at me loudly in Chinese, and he is becoming more belligerent. At one point I actually think he’s going to hit me.
In the end, the interpreting woman offers me a $25 credit. I refuse, as I will never come back to this cleaners. We negotiate some more. Sort of. In the end I accept $15 in cash. So now I’m out $10, with a skirt that is in worse shape than it was before I brought it in. Next time everything is going to Ros.
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