Rights or no, first impressions count

Went to the store the other day and darned if I didn’t get checked out by a tropical fish.

Or maybe she had a second job as a circus clown and didn’t have time to take off her wig before starting her cashier shift.

Either way, I was treated to the entertainment of paying a girl with a mop of purple hair, odd-colored makeup that appeared to have been applied with a roller brush and enough earrings to get reception from radio stations in Fairbanks. In addition, she had a hoop through her nose ala Ferdinand the Bull, and every time she spoke I was distracted by the clicking and clacking of the doohickey jammed through her tongue.

Do I have a problem with people dressing like street performers? No. I’m big into everybody doing their own thing. What caught me by surprise is that I was at a relatively large chain retail store (wanna guess which one?), and I guess I always assumed that it had a dress code.

I’ve had the opportunity to be a department manager at a large retail store (I thank the lord every holiday season that I now have a Monday through Friday day job) and can recall running into this issue from time to time. Especially with the younger generations, we would have employees coming to work with hardware on their faces and not-seen-in-nature colors on their faces and hair. How come it was always a bigger hassle with the younger employees?

Now, I’m sure I’ll catch flak for saying this, but it seems as though the 1980s and 1990s babies have developed a deep sense of entitlement — “I deserve this,” “you owe me that.” At work, the attitude seems to be “you owe me a check, and if you’re lucky I’ll do some work in order to earn some of it.” Lots of eye-rolling, heavy sighing and the like when work is assigned or tasked.

The days of arriving to work at least 10 minutes prior to the beginning of a shift are over, not to mention working up to the end of your shift before clocking out and preparing to go home. In recent times, I’ve learned from various friends in the military that even they’re seeing this from new troops arriving fresh from boot camp and advanced individual training. I was shocked to hear that soldiers are whining and complaining to NCOs and officers when given orders. It sends shivers up my spine to think what the consequences would have been if we had tried that back in the day.

What causing this? I’m guessing there are several root causes. Personally, I blame it partially on the instant answers world we live in. With computers and smart phones, answers are available immediately. Instant gratification is nearly always at our fingertips. In addition, I think there was too much emphasis placed in recent years on being our kids’ pal. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a great relationship with my kids, but in the end they know that my rule is law and there is no counting to three, whining, begging or otherwise questioning me once the conversation is over and I’ve made my decision.

More and more often, I come across parents who feel it’s just too much work to be heavy with their children and it’s easier to just give in. The child gets what he or she wants and the parents are free to do what they want without having to listen to the whining. The child then grows up believing that the rest of us will cater to their desires — a modern day Veruca Salt.

So back to the challenges of the work environment. As a manager I would have cashiers and sales staff arrive with saggy pants, underwear showing, a face full of metal and hair colors straight out of a Skittles bag. I would politely remind them that we had a dress code, please pull up your pants and wear a belt, remove the nose ring before coming to work, if you want to dye your hair Marge Simpson blue you’ll have to work in the back (and so on).

Like clockwork, I’d hear the same tiresome tirade regarding “rights,” “freedom of expression,” “intolerance” and other catchy little terms intended to place me on the defensive. The problem was, the people using these phrases obviously never really understood their true meanings. They just kept repeating sound bites like an ADD parrot. Sometimes, just for fun, I would ask them to continue in more detail about their “rights.” The slack-jawed, glassy-eyed expression I always got back was a hoot. Clearly, they weren’t quite ready to deliver a pulpit-pounding civil rights speech.

This was when I quietly informed them that yes, they indeed do have a right to dress like Yucko the clown and walk around with their pants around their ankles all they like and that this country is great because of the rights and freedoms that we are given. And isn’t it great that here, in America, a person or family can create a business and dictate what kind of atmosphere he wishes to have via how the employees are presented to the public. Oops. Gotcha. Yes, you have the right to look as you wish, but employers may or may not choose to hire you.

Most places of employment have a professional dress code. It strikes me as ironic that while we’re in the midst of a recession, I still run into people who are quitting work or getting fired in the process of fighting with their employers over their “rights” to dress and groom themselves as they wish. And lest you think I’m totally heartless, I tried my best to keep my people employed and give them as many chances as I could.

It’s true!

Why, I even offered to compromise with one particular young man who continuously refused to come to work looking appropriate. I said I was willing (nice guy that I am) to allow him to continue coming to work looking like he did … if he were willing to add clown shoes, a big red rubber nose and a squirting lapel flower to his daily attire.

I offered to buy him a unicycle and teach him to juggle while ridding it. That way, our store would have a clown to entertain kids while parents shopped. But instead, that stubborn kid refused and started following the dress code. Darn it, and I was really looking forward to having a clown.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column under the tagline “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.