I love the idea of a Unified Theory.
One law that explains everything, by which all things abide.
I don’t claim to understand the physics behind such a law.
Or the math. Definitely not the math.
But I am intrigued by the notion that all things can be made to yield to one, overarching principle.
I’ve sought to impose such order upon my own life.
Especially when it comes to sunglasses.
For the longest time, I’ve sought the pair of sunglasses suitable for all occasions.
And I have spent an embarrassing amount of money in my quest.
But, alas, to no avail.
Although I have come close.
I thought I’d distilled the entire sunglass universe down to the two most indispensable styles: the aviator and the wayfarer.
The aviators you dress up, as needed.
And the wayfarers, you dress down.
Of course, both must be Ray Bans.
For two reasons.
First, Ray Ban has deep roots in military aviation.
I put on a pair of Ray Ban Aviators, and I become Gregory Peck, climbing into the cockpit of a B-17 in Twelve O’Clock High.
They’re classics.
Second, the Ray Ban logo in the top-right corner of a pair of shades is an enduring symbol of preppy cool.
Like the Ralph Lauren polo pony.
You care about such things when you’re as vain as I am.
So, I’d built my Unified Theory of Sunglasses around aviators and wayfarers.
And the theory held for some time.
Until I went to the beach.
The wayfarers were the clear choice, I thought.
I had visions of JFK sailing off Hyannis Port, circa 1961.
If they worked for him, they’d work for me.
But, as soon a single bead of sweat formed on my sunscreen-slathered nose, the heavy frames slid right off.
And along with them, my theory.
I still had a week to go in my Florida beach vacation, and there was no way I intended to spend that time constantly pushing sunglasses up the bridge of my nose.
Who has the patience for that?
I needed a new pair of beach sunglasses. Stat.
A quick internet search revealed two Sunglass Hut stores a few miles away.
And, conveniently, both were located in the same suburban Clearwater mall.
One was a stand-alone store, and the other was described as a service counter inside Macy’s department store.
I’m off to buy sunglasses, I told my wife.
“Again?” she asked.
Yeah, yeah. I know.
I would have explained my now-debunked Unified Theory of Sunglasses, but I knew she’d be thoroughly bored in about five seconds.
She doesn’t concern herself with such things.
But she did say, “I could use some new beach sunglasses,” and asked if she could tag along.
Of course.
We got to the mall and headed for the stand-alone Sunglass Hut.
It wasn’t clear at first whether it was even open.
One section of the roll-down metal caging was still in place.
And the girl behind the counter was just sitting there, staring at her phone.
“Are you open,” I asked as I stepped into the store.
“Yup,” she said, without even looking up.
Wow. That’s quite the customer service, I thought.
So typical, I hate to say.
But, in fairness to her, I’d bet seventy-five percent of the people who walk into a Sunglass Hut walk out without buying anything. Maybe more.
There’s a plethora of options, triggering the Paradox of Choice in many people.
Too many choices can render you incapable of choosing.
Then, there’s the cost.
It’s not uncommon to see someone try on a pair of sunglasses, appear to like them, but then recoil at the sight of the price tag.
And then walk out without having bought anything.
Yes, Sunglass Hut saleslady, I get it.
But still: To make no effort whatsoever when someone walks into your store? None?
That’s pretty piss poor.
My wife and I spent the next ten minutes trying on various pairs of sunglasses and consulting each other on various options.
I was struggling because of my ridiculously narrow face.
Sunglasses that fit most people look like those super-wide clown sunglasses you buy at the state fair on me.
It’s a real problem.
I wanted something lightweight with polarized lenses. Ray Bans, preferably.
And I didn’t want to look like one of the Olsen twins wearing oversized Jackie Os.
I tried on a half dozen pairs, but none met my criteria.
My wife wasn’t finding anything she loved, either.
And God forbid the girl behind the counter got off her ass to even try to help us.
So, we left.
We joined the seventy-five percent of people who walk out of Sunglass Huts empty-handed.
Should we even bother with the other store? I wondered.
Well, we’re here, I thought. What the hell?
We found our way to the Sunglass Hut counter inside the Macy’s.
There was a twentyish-looking dude with shaggy hair and glasses behind the counter.
He was clearly on the prowl.
When he saw us approaching, he seized us with a cheerful, “Hey, folks! You from out of town?”
I assumed it was a reference to my aloha shirt.
Do I look like a tourist to you, punk?
Because I shouldn’t.
As soon as the temperature remains reliably above seventy degrees, an aloha shirt becomes a regular part of my wardrobe rotation.
My pink Kahala shouldn’t necessarily label me as an out-of-towner, friend.
Even though I was.
But anyway.
He took note of the annoyed look on my face and toned things down.
“Can I help you find anything?” he asked.
Okay. That’s better.
I gave him the rundown on what I was after, and my wife did the same.
Then, he started moving all around, pulling different pairs of sunglasses off shelves and out of drawers.
“How about these?” he asked. “Or these?”
He was at least making an effort. I appreciated that.
I once again encountered the too-wide-for-my-face issue, which I promptly explained to him.
“Okay,” he said, thoughtfully. “Now I’m with you.”
And then he went back to pulling sunglasses out of drawers.
I had to admit, this guy was actually being helpful.
He was engaged, but not pushy.
He listened. He tried to understand.
And he took our feedback and adjusted his approach accordingly.
It was just good salesmanship, I guess.
And a far cry from the experience we’d had in the other store.
I finally landed on a pair of lightweight plastic Ray Bans that fit my face.
The only problem was the lenses weren’t that dark.
Yes, they were polarized, but was that sufficient?
Did I risk burning my retinas on the white sand beaches?
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” the salesman said. “Those polarized lenses are going to do all the work to knock down that glare. You’ll be fine.”
Oh, really?
“Yeah,” he continued. “See, I have blue eyes like you, and as long as I have polarized lenses, I’m fine.”
That could have been complete bullshit, but okay.
“And besides,” he said, “those frames look great on you.”
Now, I knew that was clearly a sales tactic.
But dammit! if it didn’t work.
My wife and I both bought new beach shades.
And, despite my shattered Unified Theory of Sunglasses,
I walked away with a lot of respect for that sales guy.
And his superior salesmanship.
He had legit skills.
So, if you’re looking for a sales guy,
Or a new pair of beach shades,
You can find both
At the Sunglass Hut sales counter
Inside the Macy’s
Inside the mall
In sunny Clearwater.
No Theory required.
Unified or otherwise.