The clerk behind the counter in the fancy kitchen and cooking store looked forty-something. Smiling, she asked me a question echoed multiple times a day: “How can I help you?”
Then she glanced at the nametag on my shirt and her friendly salesperson grin faded. Soon, she was telling me about five hours that had changed her life.
But first I answered, letting her know I was there for a special-ordered knife and had also found other on-sale kitchen-y items. It was after work and I was crossing errands off a to-do list. When exiting my car, I noticed my nametag was still on.
Wearing my nametag in public is always a risk.
A good risk.
A bad risk. Read More →by