Retail Nightmares

When I lived in San Francisco, I had four different jobs on one street: Chestnut Street in the Marina District. One day spa and three beauty boutiques.
I loved working at two of them and really hated working at the other two. At the job that would be my last on Chestnut Street (mainly because I had run out of places to work there) I had what is easily the worst retail experience of my life.
And that is saying A LOT as I have had many memorable experiences both in spa work and regular retail.
I'm always leery of salespeople who are obviously on commission, you can practically see the dollar signs in their eyes. I'm just not mindlessly competitive enough to thrive in an environment like that. I also sympathize way too much for the consumer so I just can't manipulate someone into buying more than they say they can afford.
Conversely, if I am passionate about a product and free to be honest with the customer in terms of what would work best for them, then I can sell like crazy, and I enjoy it.
But at this particular job we were trained to be pushy and have an answer for every protest a customer may have. I was already unhappy there and my enthusiasm for their products was quickly waning (always a sure sign it's time to move on) but I decided to give it one more solid try before giving notice.
One late morning I was in the shop by myself and a young woman in her early twenties came in. ("Compliment SOMETHING! Her shoes, her bag, her hair, ANYTHING!" I had been told, to 'break the ice.')
I desperately scanned her possessions and appearance for something I could comment on. I had already smiled and said hello and she didn't seem very receptive. Not seeing anything obvious I could compliment, I finally noticed she was wearing support hose.
Kind of weird, but unusual so therefore I could prove to her that I was paying attention. Plus, I have a natural tendency towards spider veins and could probably benefit from a good, sturdy pair of constricting pantyhose.
"I like those...I could probably use a pair" I said gesturing towards her tights.
"My...prosthetic legs?" She asked, puzzled.
Yes. Her prosthetic legs. She left without buying anything and I was fired a few days later.