She enthusiastically stepped up to the counter. “I’d like to be measured, please,” she said with a perky, lilting voice.

Waiting for my items to be rung, I turned towards the melodious request. The unoccupied saleslady behind the counter offered flatly, “32AA.” My saleslady piped in, “No, 30AA,” barely glancing up from ringing my purchase.

The once perky voice responded, somewhat crestfallen, “Oh. But, they didn’t fit…”

“Petite Warcoal,” my saleslady offered, nodding her head towards a section of bras towards the back of the store. (I, not knowing bras came in petite sizes, followed her movement.)

The slight young girl followed the first saleslady. I stared at my saleslady, intent on ringing up my lingerie. “Um, how did you know her size just by looking?”

She finally looked up from the pile of intimate apparel at her hands. She gazed at me with a vacuous look. “Lady, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all. We just know.”