Forget college apps, transcript requests and the SAT. Ever since I walked into the plastic log cabin pitched in the middle of Montgomery Mall I’ve been counting down the days until I could be the one sporting a velvet hat, black boots and patent leather belt buckle. Since I was eight, I’ve known what I want to be when I grow up: Santa.

After an afternoon of essay writing, finding my niche and labeling envelopes for teacher recommendations, I was ready to get into my car, rush over to Montgomery Mall and grab a hold of the first jolly old fellow with a belly like a bowl full of jelly I could find. But I ran into Fred Delello outside the copy room and he suggested that I call the mall Santa’s people first at the Cherry Hill Photo Company, which is basically like the Santa Employment Agency.

“Last year alone we placed more than 300 naturally bearded Santas in malls and department stores throughout the country,” the website states. “Most of our Santas are hired by referrals but we sometimes go through churches, clubs and organizations.”

Ahah! I got it: if I wanted to be the Montgomery Mall Santa, I needed a letter of recommendation—from the Santa at White Flint.

“Hi girlie,” said Santa, confidently perched on a velvet-draped throw tastefully arranged around the elevator bank.

Me: So, Santa, what makes your job so great?   

Santa: When a kid comes in and has a big smile and runs towards you, it’s a great feeling . . . [here, senioritis kicked in and I stopped taking notes. . . Santa said something about the Christmas Spirit and a twinkle]

Me: That sounds like such a great way to give back to the community. So what’s the weirdest gift request you’ve ever gotten?

Santa: I guess there was a little girl who was adopted or in a foster home and she wanted real parents. I sort of side-stepped that question. I really didn’t know what to say. 

Amy: Okay. So, if you had the means, would you really give all these kids all the gifts they asked for?

Santa: Probably not all of them. I mean, some seven and eight-year old-boys come in and they want motorcycles and sports cars and I tell them that they’re not quite old enough to drive them yet. And then there are kids who come in here with these long lists and I tell them that they can get some of these toys, but not all of them ‘cause there are millions of little kids in the world and everyone has to share.

Amy: So, do you have any suggestions for people who aspire to be Santa?

Santa:  Yes. They should definitely get a real beard, not a fake one. They should grow their hair. And there’s stuff out there you’ll want buy to whiten your beard. 

Amy: Santa, I have a confession to make. I came here because I want your job. I want to sit on the chair and have a twinkle in my eye and…

Santa:  Yes . . . don’t be bashful, people ask me for things all the time.

Amy: It’s just that, Santa, I’m a girl.

Santa: Oh, right. In that case, most likely, Santa will never be a girl, but there are Santa’s helpers and Mrs. Claus. I think in the Mall of America, they have three Santa stands in different locations, and one of them is manned by a woman. 

Amy: Move over Hillary Clinton—time to break out my diamond cutter and shatter that one final glass ceiling. 

Santa: Um, alright. I hope you have a Merry Christmas. Now, I just have one question for you, do you believe in Santa? 

Amy: I do now. 

[Author’s Note: Yes, that exchange just before this author’s note actually did happen. No, I did not sit on Santa’s lap, it would have compromised my professionalism, but Santa assured me that you’re never too old to sit on his lap, as one feisty 93-year-old woman found out this very holiday season. For the record, Santa’s real name is George Lowe and he works as a handy man in the off-season.]