Once, I insisted on taking my dad’s six pack of Molson Canadian to the register at the 7-Eleven. Not wanting to risk a tantrum, he obliged. I hoisted the cans above my head, sliding the beer onto the counter on the tip of my toes.
The cashier, playing along, asked “What’s your date of birth?”
“January 21st,” I told him.
“What year?”
“Every year.”
That day, I learned that the market requires more than cuteness to close a sale.
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