'I sell wedding dresses for a living. You won't believe what really goes on in the fitting room.'

If you want to support independent women's media, become a Mamamia subscriber. Get an all-access pass to everything we make, including exclusive podcasts, articles, videos and our exercise app, MOVE.

"You have the best job in the world," mum tells me daily, gesturing around the perfectly lit showroom.

Here, chocolates sit on decadent dishes and Aesop cares for your hands.

Bouclé lounges feel as soft as clouds, while pristine dresses hang perfectly spaced along the walls.

Watch: How to find an affordable tailor. Post continues after video.

"I really do," I say, eyes gleaming, careful not to mention that brides have been robbed and someone even shot on the corner, just last month.

And, like in any people-facing job, there are just some customers that just take the cake.

"I swear, something chemical happens when a ring hits THAT finger," my manager huffed, one Sunday afternoon.

First there was Emily*, who made us all consider having a stiff drink after she went to eight shops and proceeded to try on the whole shop — twice. After countless emails, she finally orders … only to demand a refund the next day.

There was Eleanor*, without a chance of a job, who blew up our phone three to seven times a day for the best part of two months. Armed with the lowest budget, she demanded the moon and our sanity.

Kate*, who had never heard the word no, "cheekily" asked for deal upon deal, before throwing a fit and buying our dress from another shop.

And Sandra*, who was consoled by three different stylists after her mum caused a WWE brawl over her "lingerie" dress. We felt so bad for her, we offered three deals over four appointments, only for her to buy elsewhere.

Holly has been working in the bridal industry for the past six years. Image: Supplied.

Unchecked narcissism. Cameras in your face. Verbal abuse. All tolerated under the threat of a bad review.

#Bridesof2026 have turned "the customer is always right" into a hostage situation.

In September alone, the London-based boutique where I work refunded an estimated £27,000 (A$54,743) to keep the peace.

Hello, mummy issues.

The F-word isn't usually a question of if, but when, and who. Mothers, friends, and stylists alike — around here, moving targets are preferred.

"That dress needs someone tall, like you," mothers have casually gestured toward me. "It just looks silly on you, Elaine*."

"Oh, she just needs to lose a few before the wedding."

"Wed shred, here we come!" one mum squeals, with her daughter's baby bouncing on her leg. "Mum — I'm five months postpartum. F**k. Off."

Last month was the first time a bride looked excited when she saw the tape measure.

She whispered to me, "I'm going to get lipo and be half this size in a few months' time!"

I try to smile back, as I know the only bride who has cancelled her dress died from similar surgery in Turkey.

The Bridget Jones of bridal.

"Your dress should fit you; you shouldn't have to fit the dress," is my daily mantra. "That's why the dress will come in your three sizes — bust, waist, and hips."

Cue the bride's turn to smile politely.

I try again, with the help of Bridget Jones.

"I mean, look at you. The dress looks incredible, just as you are."

Another polite smile, no teeth.

Then her mother-in-law cuts through the room: "Size 18 — no, that's HUGE! I work in fashion, and my Olivia* isn't that big."

We then sat in silence, all four of us, just taking in what she said, before Olivia jumped into the conversation about her body.

"I've never been that size — you must be wrong."

We then tried on said size, which fit like a glove; however, the sale was already spoiled.

The act of undressing.

I've had brides hand me wads of cash with a condom stuck in between, to the bluest of bloods sharing personal intimacies that made me forget all about selling dresses.

"The baby wasn't planned; it just happened."

"…my partner was just made redundant, so IDK what we're going to do. You guys wouldn't refund the fee…"

"My best friend just moved…" a bride said, who came to the appointment alone. "...I'm finding it really hard to make friends here. How did you do it?"

Perhaps it's age, but I no longer see the point in threading a fake narrative of womanhood.

The F-word isn't usually a question of if, but when, and who. Image: Supplied.

"Who says I have?" I reply back.

Another asks me, "Is your partner the one?" "I believe so," I tell her, and we both giggle like schoolgirls.

These small moments with brides are the heartbeat of the job.

Where the stakes are so low, women can say the small but important things that keep them up at night.

More than a job or a dress.

Maybe that's why it's so difficult when we don't hear back.

That maybe it wasn't just about a sale, but rather, a feeling of closeness that made you forget that this is just a job.

That for an hour, you were someone's best friend, speaking up for what they wanted, involved in the decision-making process, with the same input as their nearest and dearest.

I would be lying if I said I didn't hope that would at least count for a polite response back of, "No, but thank you."

After six years of working in bridal — if I've learnt anything, it's that the search for the perfect dress says a lot more about women than it does about weddings.

*Names changed to protect identity.

Want more wedding tips and stories about brides? Read these next:

• Exactly what people are spending on wedding gifts in 2025.

• 'I set a budget of $100,000 for my wedding. You won't believe what we wound up spending.'

• 'I saw what the matron of honour did at the hens party. So I told the bride and got her sacked.'

Feature image: Supplied.