Cuts Both Ways
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday April 11, 2015

I glide around the shop display, high on the heady scent of perfumed candles.

“Would you like to sample our skin creams?” purrs the willowy shopgirl. She hands me a luxury Popsicle stick. With it, I scoop out a polite portion of Kashmir Petal lotion and knead my hands until I smell like a marshmallow. I admire her little amber pots arranged in careful rows along the counter and marvel at her equally decadent prices.

Into the shop walks a woman my age with a familiar face. I can’t place her but I know we’re acquainted somehow. Perhaps we have friends in common? I acknowledge her with a smile and say ‘Hi!’.

She glances towards me and for a micro-second, our eyes lock. I see a flicker of recognition before she hesitates. My greeting hangs uncomfortably in the air. I search her face for friendliness but she gives me a look of Easter Island disdain. I register her unsmiling mouth and realise she has cut me dead. She turns her head to avert my gaze and lavishes her attention on a glass cabinet full of trinkets.

I am flummoxed, then embarrassed. What to do? The slender sales assistant eyes me, waiting for Act II of this shop-staged melodrama. I busy myself with a pot of Magnolia body crème while my mind ratchets through my options. Perhaps she didn’t hear me? Do I say hello again? Maybe she didn’t recognise me? Maybe she decided not to recognise me? Perhaps she’s shy? Is shyness an excuse for rudeness?

Up surges a flood of teenaged insecurities. Perhaps she just doesn’t like me? Why doesn’t she like me?

I berate myself for caring and become incensed instead. How dare she! Is it so hard to be friendly and say hello? My Freudian brain scrambles to rationalise id from ego. I decide to give my nemesis the benefit of the doubt. I sense she’s as aware of my presence as I am of hers. I throw a final glance in her direction and resolve to greet her again if she meets my gaze. Her eyes dart from mine and she feigns sudden interest in a box of greeting cards on the counter. The irony is not lost on me. I cut my losses, nod my thanks to the shopgirl and slip out of the store.

A fortnight later, even as I write, I’m reliving my indignation. Why is snobbery so infuriating?

I’ve only been labelled a snob once (at least to my face). At a bar in Sydney, a bloke in a suit who’d had tee many martoonis suggested I join his table for one. I pointed out my table of ten noise-makers and told him I belonged there. He crooked his index finger at the barman, who leaned in to hear his order: “You call this happy hour?” said martini-man loudly, then pointed at me. “This one’s a snob.”

A dozen heads swivelled on necks. I was mortified. Martini-man, well-pleased with himself, slid off his stool and zig-zagged back to his table. I slunk back to mine.

At high school, I watched the social climbers with awe and envy. One in particular fascinated me. She was the 16-year-old protégé of an upwardly mobile mother, a woman who parked her Mercedes conspicuously outside the principal’s office. I got the feeling we could be friends until a more suitable friend became available. (Nobodies and Somebodies couldn’t be pals.)

I learnt from her that snobs-in-training can’t be complacent – there is always someone higher up the ladder to impress. And this girl was never satisfied. Social climbing was relentless. There were always more and more people to look down on.

By the time we’d left school, she’d run out of friends. Her ritual sneering reinforced her hypocrisy. I was good enough to talk to if nobody better was around. (Her admiration for those above her was far greater than her contempt for the likes of me below.) Years later, we bumped into each other at a fete. Our talk turned to school and her embarrassment at having a mum who aspired to be Queen Bee of the Mother’s Auxiliary. “I didn’t enjoy school much,” she said. “I never felt like I belonged.” I realised then that despite all her social manoeuvring, her schoolyard snobbery was deep-rooted in insecurity.

As for my priggish acquaintance from the gift shop, I’m sure to bump into her again. But this time, I’ll be ready. I’ll bear down on her with my arms stretched wide. I’ll shout excitedly, “Hellooo darling!” Cupping her face with my palms, I’ll plant noisy European kisses on her cheeks. “Where have you been?” I’ll gush and hold her at arm’s length admiringly. I can’t wait to see the look on her face. Snob value!