Clothes aren't nice enough to give snooty boutique treatment…read more
I brought my 14 year old daughter into this empty establishment full of cubicle clothes, in hopes of being fitted for her 8th grade semi-formal.
She prefers to dress like a male, and clearly this bothered the staff there, as they chose to appear too busy folding clothes to make the store any money.
The older woman with the accent asked if she could help us, and I said "we're looking for slacks, a shirt and vest for my daughter for her prom". She asked what size slacks, I responded 28", and she informed me that they start at size 30". I followed up with, "what about a shirt and vest?", she replied "for who?, I said "for me", she said, "what size are you?", and I repeated to her that we were there to shop my daughter, who was standing next to me feeling awkward enough as is.
The sad thing is, we were at the Boston Pride parade the day before, and my daughter felt so good about herself, then the following day, this clothes folder takes it upon herself to make the conversation as difficult as possible to not assist my child.
After we looked through the call-center-special clothes for another minute or so, we realize that we were definitely in the wrong place for what we were in search of. A man with a measuring tape comes out from the back, speaks to the woman that couldn't assist us, then asks what he can help us with. I told HIM, "I'm looking to have my daughter dressed for the prom" he responds with a laugh, "they still have those?".. good one, Don Wrinkles..
I went to the store because for some reason I thought "Jos A" was Joseph Abboud, who is a classy man that goes to the same gym as me. I asked the comedian with the frumpy clothes if Joseph Abboud owned the store and he said they didn't, so we left, as we were clearly in the wrong place.
We went to Macy's across the street, found my daughter a nice black Calvin Klein suit and she is ready for her semi!
I will never return to Jos A Bank again, and am tempted to go beyond this post in spreading the word of how they judged/treated my child.