Next up is a cosmetics counter at The Bay. Here, Brygidyr assumes the dumb-husband persona with remarkable aplomb. He’s out to buy his wife some makeup, he tells the all-in-black clerk, then looks at her expectantly, awaiting a miracle. (I shrink into the background, though still within earshot.) The clerk proves a remarkably good sport, wading through Brygidyr’s half-baked ideas about his wife’s tastes. He shrugs like a pigeon as the salesgirl reels off options for him to consider, then balks at the green eyeshadow — even when she offers him a two-toned combination. “Does one colour go on one eye and the other on the other?” he asks, stone-faced.
Ultimately, as he makes to leave, she draws her last weapon. “How about a makeover?” she asks. “Your wife can come in whenever she wants and redeem the gift card for $45 worth of products of her own choosing.” Done. Or, at least, he’ll think about it. The clerk gives him her business card to book the appointment. “That,” says Brygidyr, “was a great finishing touch. She really made it easy for us.”