The tape dispenser is jammed for the 5th time this morning, and Elias is staring at two very different pieces of cardstock with the kind of intensity usually reserved for bomb disposal. In his left hand, there is a sleek, minimalist graphic featuring a high-resolution molecular structure of a terpene-clean, clinical, and looking very much like something you would see in a high-end dermatologist’s office. In his right hand, a poster for the upcoming ‘High-Noon 4/20 Bash’ featuring a neon-green cartoon alien wearing sunglasses and a bucket hat. He has 15 minutes before the first customer arrives, and he still hasn’t decided which version of reality he wants to project to the 85 people who will walk past this window today. This is the existential crisis of the modern dispensary manager, and by extension, the entire industry: are we a pharmacy or a playground? Are we selling a lifestyle, or are we selling a life-line?

I’ve spent the last 5 years as a virtual background designer, a job that didn’t exist when I started my career. My name is Diana E., and my entire livelihood is built on the art of the ‘fuh-kade.’ Yes, I’ve been pronouncing it that way in my head for nearly a decade until a client gently informed me yesterday that it’s actually ‘fa-sad.’ It’s embarrassing to admit that a person who designs professional aesthetics didn’t actually know the word for them, but it’s a fitting metaphor for this industry. We are all building these elaborate digital and physical backgrounds, trying to look like the ‘epitome’ of professional wellness (which, for the record, I also used to pronounce as ‘epi-tome’), while underneath, we’re still just trying to figure out how to sell a plant without getting the cops or the doctors mad at us.

The Impossible Mission: Two Masks

The tension Elias feels is a specific kind of pressure that comes from the blurring lines of healthcare and recreational joy. It’s an impossible mission for the staff. Imagine walking into a CVS and having the pharmacist try to sell you a ‘sick vibe’ along with your insulin, or walking into a nightclub and having the bartender explain the anti-inflammatory properties of the hops in your IPA. It feels disjointed because it is. We’ve forced the cannabis industry to wear two masks simultaneously, and the straps are starting to snap.

On one hand, you have the medical patient-perhaps someone like my aunt who is 75 and looking for relief from chronic pain-who wants the safety and sterile reassurance of a clinic. On the other, you have the 25-year-old looking for a weekend enhancer who wants the colorful, loud energy of a lifestyle brand. When you try to serve both in the same 425-square-foot retail space, you end up serving neither particularly well.