“Are you Chinese?”

I politely said no.

“Are you Vietnamese?” She tried again.
“Done. Next pants.”

I stared down at the cuffed and safety pinned uniform. Back in the changing room, I put on the second pair of the same color and fit.

“No, Japanese,” I offered instead of the usual guessing game I put people through. She finished the pant leg in 30 seconds.

“Oh, Japanese bettah. I like Japanese more than Chinese. They don’t try take over my country,” she said so fast and almost as if relieved by answer. She looked up at me,”All done. You change. Want press wit dat?”

“Um, no. No, thank you,” I mumbled as I closed the changing room door one last time.

Now in my pair of skinny jeans, I paid for my pants to be hemmed and picked up by Friday. “Are you Vietnamese?” I asked as I signed my credit card receipt. All of that and she didn’t even bother to tell me.

“Yes,” she smiled stapling the receipts together before handing them back to me. “Thank you, come again.”

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