Flea market shopping

 Two days ago I had a bad day. I’ve reached the final week of holidays. I’m fairly prepped for my classes that begin next week. I’ve run out of interesting save-money-and-food home projects (tomato paste, pureed garlic and ginger, blanched spinach all packed and labeled in the freezer). I don’t have a wide social life (to put it mildly) and I was feeling extra sorry for myself. To top it all off, I went for a haircut which I do only every 3 months or so, and so especially look forward to. Not this time.

First, the hair dresser told me I had a very dry scalp.

“Your scalp is very dry. Do you know that?”

Now I do, thanks.

“It’s actually coming off. If I do this--- it just comes off.”

Thanks, I got it. I’ll use better shampoo.

“It’s really not good for it to be sitting there.”

I really do get it.

“I mean, I don’t mean to be rude but…”

Hm.

Good thing we weren’t anywhere public like a hair salon or anything.

Then she didn’t listen to how I wanted my hair.

“So you want it in a bob?”

Uh, no.

The result is quite depressingly bob-like.

So I tied my hair up and decided to go flea market shopping, also something I do infrequently but always enjoy. Our main suburb flea market (as opposed to the huge city ones) sells everything from elephant statues to five inch heels. My favourite stalls though are the second hand clothes. People, women usually, buy huge bundles of clothes that have been collected in developed countries (donated usually, sometimes you can even find the Salvation Army price tag on them) and then resell them individually. In the city markets you can get tops for $1. At our suburb one they’re $5. I’m happy to pay that because I know that’s about what I’d pay in the States for a second hand top and because I know that I’m helping someone make a living. In this economy if I get a little jipped in the process, I’m okay with that.

Anyway, Ange and I headed off. First stop, the shorts man (one of the only men I’ve seen in the second hand clothing business) who has branched out into tops as well. Ange found a cut off jackety thing and I found a top I thought would look good on Mum.

Stop number two was my favourite stall. Set in the corner of the market it had everything: all kinds of tops, trousers, dresses, skirts and a huge pile of extras (usually the plus size clothing that wouldn’t fit on the hanger but sometimes an unusual skirt) and, two extra special feature: a changing room made of a sheet draped over a wire (but open to the world on the other side which down below opened onto the street and a parking area so you need to change with caution) and a mirror. The mirror was also a challenge to use because it was tied to the corner (so that no one walked off with it perhaps) and you had to crouch in between the wooden slacks and try to imagine what your dress looked like with you standing up straight.

Ange and I sifted through all the racks, piling potentials on our arms as we waited for the change room to become vacant (they don’t give you numbers, once you’re in, you’re in and the next in line just have to wait). As soon as the lady looking for black tops left we jumped in to secure our spot and spent a pleasant 20 minutes trying on and sorting into piles: no, maybe, yes.

Having narrowed down our finds we went to find the seller. The other reason I like this stall is that the women manning it don’t seem particularly interested in selling their clothes. This might seem a strange attribute to enjoy in flea market stall sellers unless you’ve been to an African or South American flea market in which case you’ll understand completely. The generally observed techniques of flea market selling involve manipulation, coercion, guilt-tripping or a combination of all three. I do admire flea market sellers – it’s a hard way to make a living, especially in a country where people do not have a lot of excess cash to spend, and they do it well. That said, I avoid the extra pushy stalls if I can. Having paid for our tops (and got a discount on a shirt that had been repaired by its previous owner) we headed to try find Ange a dress that she was looking for.

One stall over we found dresses! Oh dear. Nice dresses that tempted me as well! And it turned out to be manned by the same uninterested seller. Perfect: no pushy seller and we could use her change room and mirror. Feeling guilty because we had already bought several tops but really wanting the dresses we had found, I prepared myself to bargain. I enjoy bargaining and I think I do okay at it but not great. I think it’s in part because I’m not as ruthless as you need to be to get an amazing bargain. I can’t bring myself to go too low knowing that I do have money and they do need it. I do know, however, that flea market prices are always inflated I try to get a little off if I can.

Anyway, I figured out my starting price and went to find our uninterested selling friend. Fortunately I had two advantages on my side: a small stain I had found on one of the dresses and the fact that we were buying more than one (and had already bought from her that day). All points in my favour. Unfortunately, she had more: experience, amazing delivery and the actual control of the price. The dresses all cost $15 originally.

“So can I buy this one for ten because of the stain [Scramble to find the stain, look a little awkward. Mistake] and the others for twelve each, since I’m buying three?”

“Ahhh.. ten! I will lose my job!”

Another advantage she has over me: this is not her stall; she is able to go down only so much and only she knows how much that is. Whether this is true or not is irrelevant.

“Okay, how about twelve for each?”

This was a mistake. I raised too high too fast. I know I’m beat.

“Eeeeiii!”

Advantage number 5: excellent emotional exclamations that seem to suggest I’m asking her to throw her third son into the deal as well.

“Give me thirteen for the two and twelve for the one with the stain.”

“Okay.”

I know when to admit defeat.

I got a $2 discount for the top with the repair job, and saved myself $7 on the dresses. I also got a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with Ange trying on and experimenting, finding deals and negotiating prices. My spirit was lifted. A bargain.