"Would you like to try a demo?"

Being a mall salesperson is probably one of the top ten hardest jobs ever. Like seriously.

As my mother, grandmother, and I walked through the mall, we were accosted repeatedly by various salespeople manning the booths outside of all the stores.

The first large encounter was at one of those places that sell covers for every kind of technological gadget imaginable, in pursuit of a cover for my naked, exposed phone (that had just survived a drop in the parking lot, which I think was it's ninth and final safety life). I simply asked the man to point me to where I might find the covers for the model of my phone, and he escorts me towards them and begins laying them out, sorted by color and material, and taking any that I looked at for more than five seconds out of the delicate wrapping and snapping it to my phone with an unnecessary but cool little plastic device. As my phone tried on more outfits than I ever do, the man threw the hardest sales pitch imaginable for something I already had every intention to buy. He even said his colleague was a "professional screen protector adhererer." I didn't realize that was offered as a degree now; perhaps it's only a certification program.

After we'd already purchased the cell phone cover, the man catches my mom checking her Blackberry and escorts her to that section of his cart of useless gadgets. Mom politely nodded and smiled as he explained this elaborate and unnecessary gadget involving a remote control and "driving safety" in broken English, as most people do.

Not my grandmother, however. She feels the need to listen with the greatest intensity (even though she definitely didn't understand a single thing, being that she's had her cell phone for two years and can't turn it on). The salesman could sense a prime target. Sure enough, after his spill was completed, she turned to Mom: "Do you want this for Christmas?"

The phone guy was not the only mall-booth-salesperson to notice the gigantic "sucker" sign on my dear grandma's forehead. One woman almost had Grandma handing over her Discover card entirely.

She was selling this (albeit extremely awesome) nail painting thing. It allows you to create elaborate designs very easily, with a salon-esque finish. The saleslady, noticing a group of three females with unpainted nails, seemingly jumped over the cart, exclaiming desperately "Would you like to try???"

Grandma would always like to try. Mom and I, weary from four hours of shopping, kept walking forward and hoped Grandma would follow suit. But, no, her obedience to sales people always trumps her flesh and blood, and she was caught in the trap. Grandma, not wanting to mess up her salon-finished nails, had the lady demonstrating on herself. Happy to find somebody with unpainted nails, she immediately seized my hand and doused my thumbnail in thick black polish. "It's just like a salon, except it only costs $20 one time!"

I didn't have the heart to tell her that, since I never go to nail salons anyway, there was no way buying this product would save me any money. But after I saw the result, which was completely awesome, I was sold. Grandma purchased the cheapest kit as my Christmas present.

But the lady was not finished. She went on to tell us how she has three kids, and only been working at the mall for three days, and that nobody will stop for a demo and that we're the first ones all day. (This completely contradicts the fact that she told us she sold a $140 kit the day before...) And the biggest sob story: us, her sole sale of the day, only earned her $5 in commission.

I was afraid Grandma was going to empty the contents of her purse onto the counter, grab a bottle of nail polish, and walk away, but Mom and I managed to gently pull her away from the booth with her life savings intact.

At least the Southern-bred hint of racism within her kept her from being to suseptable to the ailing salesman act. Many of them are foreign, with heavy accents. One man, hawking lotion, asked "is it because of my accent?" as we continued to walk past him. Grandma nodded yes involuntarily while Mom and I just laughed. This did not deter the man, however, as he pretended that we dropped something and needed to turn around to retrieve it. "Why are all those foreigners (she said it like she'd just sipped sour lemonade from our lunch Chick-fil-a meal) coming here to sell things?" The nail lady better be glad she was white.

So after Christmas, as I elaborately decorate my nails, I will have to think about the poor lady trying to feed her children with the five dollars my Grandma found it in her heart to pay her, and the lotion man with the accent that will have to go hungry.