the curious shopper

There is no right answer

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 17:00:00 +0000

This year, one of my New Year's resolutions was "Suffer more for beauty." And I'm pretty pleased with this resolution. I mean, I'm not wearing mom jeans over here, but I'm definitely the kind of girl to choose comfort over style. Hence, my shoes are all flats, my makeup is minimal, and I never, ever blow dry my hair.

But this year, I decided to take a stand against comfort. I'm 29, for god's sake, and if I don't look my best now, well, it just might be downhill from here. So I bought heels. They crunch my toes, but when I wear them at work, I get a little confidence kick. I bought makeup I've never had before - concealer, eyebrow pencil, a nice new blush. I even sprung for a curling iron. I'm spending more time in the mornings, but I'm feeling better when I walk out the door.

Encouraged by my resolution, my sister got me a Sephora gift card for my birthday. A lovely present. However, before hitting the store, I decided to peruse their website. You know, to prepare myself for the crushing tide of possibilities.

I find beauty stores extremely overwhelming. The issue is simple: how can you possibly know if this facewash or that lipstick is going to change your life? They all say they will, so which one can you trust? I usually end up going for a brand I know, or the nicest packaging, or something that smells good. But this time, I wanted to arm myself with a bit more information. A little pre-shop on the website would surely help with that.

And it did. As I scanned the hair-care products, I noticed little tags that said "Best of Sephora." Now this, I like. This I can get behind. Because it's based on data. I clicked on a "Best of" styling product, Frederic Fekkai Glossing Cream. I assumed the tag meant that this product had more reviews, and more positive ones, than all others like it. So I started reading.

"This stuff is so addicting it is my personal hair crack."

"Works wonders on my hair."

"Boy! This stuff works so well."

"This glossing cream will make your hair shine! I always get compliments when I use it."

"Up until I discovered FF, I sort of begrudgingly bought hair products, because I never saw the results I wanted and felt like I was throwing money down the drain. However, this line has totally changed all of that. I like this product because it doesn't contain any alcohol, and really moisturizes your hair. I've colored my hair this past year and this has saved my hair and really reversed much of the dryness that was making my hair unmanageable."

That last one really stood out, because I can relate. I too have bought hair products begrudgingly. I too have seen a lack of results. I too have dry, colored hair.

Plus, many of the negative reviewers said things like, "I used too much and it didn't work." Idiots, I thought. I noticed myself selectively filtering out the negative reviews, and becoming more and more excited with each positive one.

Now of course, I don't know any of these women. But in my head, the 5-star reviewers were all hip young account executives living in Manhattan. They were all stylish and gorgeous and the only thing missing from their routines, until now, had been Frederic Fekkai Glossing Cream. This product had to be mine.

---

So, I arrive in Sephora and manage to find the product before a single salesperson interrupts. I look at the label, I smell it, and I'm set. Now I'm standing there, looking for something else to buy with the rest of my gift card, when a saleswoman seizes the opportunity. "Can I help you find anything?" "Oh, um, I'm all right." "I see you've got the Glossing Cream! Can I show you something else?" She starts taking me to another wall of the store. "But everybody said...," I trail off, realizing I'm talking about people I don't actually know.

She holds up another product, similar in size, called Oscar Blandi Silk Polishing Cream. She starts telling me how she likes this one better, because unlike Fekkai, it doesn't have any alcohol in it. Hang on. I remember one of the reviewers saying that Fekkai had no alcohol. Now I'm really confused. Who is right?

The woman reads the Fekkai label and pronounces one of the ingredients. "See, this has pro-py-lene gly-col." Admittedly, that sounds like alcohol to me, and the last time I read a beauty magazine, it said to steer clear. Okay, I say, and I take the Oscar Blandi product. This is when the decision becomes a bit like a battle of lightsabers.

Blandi has a cooler bottle, but Fekkai has cooler graphics. The saleswoman said Fekkai has alcohol, but some reviewer said it didn't. I flip both products over to compare ingredients. The first five are exactly the same. No help. The saleswoman said she liked Blandi better, but couldn't give me a real reason why. Fekkai is one dollar cheaper. A million voices say Fekkai. One saleswoman says Blandi. Perhaps she was on commission from Blandi. Perhaps her quota this week said "Push Blandi."

I start to put Blandi back on the shelf. But then I pause. The saleswoman is pretty, and she has nice hair. Suddenly I think back to all those reviewers. Who are they, anyway? I don't see a million women on the street with gorgeous hair! Maybe they just like Fekkai because it brings their hair from nasty to acceptable! Or maybe they're all pimply 13-year-olds! It's crazy how quickly I turn on this crowd. I don't know them, they are essentially fictitious, and suddenly, I can change their features to fit my case. But I can't dispute the fidelity of a salesperson, standing right there in front of me. I put Fekkai back, and walk to the register with Blandi.

---

There are two very human instincts at play in this story, and they just so happen to be diametrically opposed. On the one hand, our rational mind says "More people = more credible." It's like "Ask the audience" on Millionaire. With that many folks in the crowd, we trust them to reach sound consensus.

On the other hand, our emotional mind says "Real person = more credible." A connection to another human - even something as tiny as eye contact - is massively influential. Seeing is believing, and it's hard to trust someone who is really just words on a page.

In this sense, shopping is actually made more difficult by the internet. Real people do battle with virtual people all day long in our heads. And with so much conflicting information, we are encouraged to maximize. We are led to believe that there is one right choice, and a thousand wrong ones, and that if we can only find the right one, we will have won. In turn, we become so scared to make the wrong decision, that we search and search and search for objective advice. Fact. Truth. 9 out of 10 doctors. Something to let us purchase without regret.

In that moment in the store, I wished I could go back to the website and read comparable reviews on Blandi. I wished I could personally meet and shake hands with all 500+ Fekkai reviewers, see what they looked like and how similar they were to me. I wished for apples-to-apples. But in the absence of that ability, I had to make the decision on my own. What if I chose wrong? It was paralyzing.

Well, I now firmly believe that the biggest difference between these two products is brand. I truly expect that if I had purchased the Fekkai product, it would work in quite the same way. So the lesson here is, there is no right answer. Maybe on Millionaire, but not in the real world. Two things can simultaneously be good. And I can't trust salespeople any more than I can trust anonymous Sephora website reviewers. The only person I can trust, is myself.

---

In all my life, this was possibly the most anxiety-ridden purchase I've made. I felt confused and annoyed for the rest of the day. I went home and checked the reviews on Blandi, seeking validation that I didn't screw up. Only 21 reviews, but all were positive. In fact, many said very similar things to the Fekkai reviews. Smoothes your hair, makes it glossy, yada yada. I suddenly realized that nobody's opinion mattered now except mine. So I tried the product. And you know what - it was great. Thank god.

Money talks

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Sun, 28 Sep 2008 05:00:00 +0000

Friends. It's been a while!

I hope you'll excuse my lack of writing in this space. But a lot has changed in the past six months. I got married, changed my name, and - perhaps most importantly - got a new job. I am no longer a Retail Planner; I am now called a Senior Strategist. The new title is hot, huh? But it means that my focus, at least professionally, is no longer solely in retail.

That said, I am still a curious shopper. I will continue to write, though perhaps less frequently, as the curious shopper. I still do a ton of shopping, and I still think about how to improve the user experience. I still carry a camera everywhere I go.

That said, I was unfortunately not carrying a camera at the scene of this post, because I was in Barcelona. This amazing city is unfortunately full of pickpockets, so we thought it best to carry as few valuables as possible. I hope my retrospective shot of the bag will suffice.

---

So we chose Barcelona for our honeymoon. Why? Besides the amazing architecture and gorgeous coastline, we were ready for some shopping. And you can't get more chic than Europe. We actually made a game out of spotting the hipsters, the whole trip looking for men and women that we deemed "tres chic." (I'm aware that this phrase is more French than Spanish, but let's not focus on that).

So we're having lunch in a plaza when we spot two tres chic guys. Dressed alike, they must be employees of some superhip store. We finish our lunch and follow them around the corner, hoping for a totally cultural, uniquely Spanish boutique. What do we find? Hugo Boss.

But this is fine. We're not aware of a Hugo Boss store in Chicago, and even if there was one, this is Hugo Boss Barcelona. Surely it's awesome.

So we walk in. The place is like a fashion museum. Every skirt and blouse is hanging just so. There is one, maybe two of each item, giving the distinct sense that you should only hope you fit into an extra small. There are tres chic salesmen everywhere, in fitted shirts, slim trousers, skinny ties and shiny shoes. I'm suddenly aware that my hair is messy and I'm wearing flip flops.

But I hold my head high and start browsing, taking extreme care not to mess anything up. I pull out a coat and let out a gasp. It's breathtaking. Immediately an employee is there, asking if I'd like to see it. He starts taking it off the hanger, then pulls out the tag. "The cost is 685 Euros." I grimace. Defeated, I say "Okay well...I guess that's out of my price range." He puts the coat back.

I almost give up right then, but decide to keep going. If I left now, I'd seem like even more of a loser. And I might have money! They don't know!

I find some pants with potential and a shirt I like, but the sticker shock has me reeling. (Remember that Euros are almost double dollars these days). So instead, I make my way downstairs, where my husband (eep!) is about to try on pants.

Huh. His salesperson is acting a lot friendlier than mine was. She's showing him the selection, finding his size and making suggestions. And the pants? When he comes out of the dressing room, I have to clap. "Tres chic," I repeat, "tres chic." We decide that this huge bump in quality and fit is worth the price, and that this will be his big-ticket souvenir. We can't afford ten pairs of Hugo Boss Barcelona pants, but we can afford one.

Or maybe two. I start to think it's my turn, so I head upstairs to grab the pants that caught my eye. Now the salesman is suggesting a blouse to try them on with. Okay, well this is a nice change of attitude! When I come out of the dressing room, it's my husband's turn to applaud. The pants are ridiculously flattering. They meet every single one of my pants criteria. Long enough, low enough, tight enough, the right color, the right waist, even the right pockets. These pants were made for me. I felt I had been searching for them all my life.

And then the whirlwind really hit. One saleswoman was handing me the suit jacket that went with the pants. Oh, they are part of a suit? Another was handing me 3-inch heels to complete the outfit. Wow, my legs look amazing! The original salesman was asking if I'd like coffee or water. As I checked out my completely transformed power businesswoman self in the mirror, he was holding out a silver tray with a champagne glass of water. I had gone from an inconvenience to the star of the store.

---

As we stood at the register, me still sipping from my lovely water glass, I was feeling euphoric. Here we were, a power couple. A couple with careers. Careers that needed pants. We were not tacky American tourists. We had money and we meant to spend it. Spend it on...

"Excuse me? The machine is not accepting your card."

My face felt flush as I asked the man to try again. Perhaps something was wrong with the machine. He tried again, then called the service line. As he spoke Spanish into the phone, my husband and I exchanged nervous whispers. "There's nothing wrong with our debit card...right?" "Shouldn't be, I put an international alert on it." "And it's worked fine so far." "Unless this is more than we have in our account..." "Oh yeah..."

The man hung up and proclaimed, "It is not the machine. It is your card. Do you have another card?"

---

As we walked away from Hugo Boss Barcelona, we felt like a couple of clowns. Who did we think we were, millionaires? Sure, we have jobs but we're not the kind of people who can prance into shops and spend hundreds on a whim! No, we were just two Americans, probably broke from paying for a wedding. We felt really, really embarrassed. Like phonies. I just kept asking myself, what happened in there?

Well, I think I know what happened in there. Frustrated because of poor treatment, I'd felt a need to prove my worth. "I'll show them," some part of me probably said. "I'm somebody. I'm worthy of your clothes. I can afford you." And then, out of my defiant overconfidence, an elite club had opened its doors. For a brief moment, we took a peek into the world of wealthy people. And it was thrilling. Special treatment is quite the rush.

But when it sweeps over you, it tends to mask reality. As we walked back to the train, we asked each other the hardest of questions. Could we really have afforded that? Are we really Hugo Boss customers? Was this whole card thing a blessing in disguise? Were the pants just not meant to be? Who do we think we are?

---

Well, as it turns out, our card was fine. We went to an internet cafe and checked our balance. The funding was there. We went home anyway and grabbed a credit card. Then, because I felt that I could not leave Spain without those pants, we went back to the store. The salesman kindly tried our original debit card again, but no dice. Somehow, that card and that machine were just not meant to be.

But our other card worked fine, so we got the pants. What we also got was a reality check. A serious examination of our place in society. We're not broke, but we're not millionaires either. Buying clothing at Hugo Boss was immensely exciting, but we can't do it every day. Maybe someday, we'll have another chance to be treated like rock stars. Maybe someday a regular store will treat everybody like rock stars. But until that day comes, we're back to America and back to reality. Paying off our credit card like everybody else.

The devil you know

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 20:50:00 +0000

I recently became a responsible homeowner! The process was full of twists and turns, such as a 4-month delay in construction, but I am finally home. The place is great. Sorry for the lack of posts.

As part of my new status, I feel invested in not only my condo, but my neighborhood too. I have a sudden urge to support local businesses. Probably because if they win, I win. So I'm seeking out the local restaurants, drycleaners, nail salons, dive bars and flower shops.

But grocery shopping - well, that's different. I know my old Jewel so well I could fill my cart with my eyes closed. So I'll admit, I've been going back to the old store, in the old neighborhood. It's just a few minutes out of my way.

---

People don't like change. Especially when something is good. But even when things are just okay, we typically prefer the devil we know. We sacrifice convenience or comfort or even excitement, in order to avoid change. We do crazy things, like continuing to use our old hairstylist in our old hometown, ten years after we left for college! Because letting a new person cut your hair - well, that's a huge risk.

And resistance to change is virtually part of our DNA. The Massive Change exhibit talked about how ancient man was hardwired to fear change in nature, because it literally signaled near-certain death. So we're not just homebodies or stubborn. Change is hard for us humans.

---

So there's this grocery store just a few blocks from my new house. I'd seen billboards for the place as I drove, but never really given it serious consideration. The signs say things like "Welcome back to the days of good advice from your grocer." They show a balding man with an apron and a smile. The logo has a 1950's soda shop sensibility. Does it appeal to me? Meh. My first reaction was, "They probably carry a bunch of obscure products and no-name brands. I better stick with Jewel."

However, when a neighbor mentioned that the store was decent, I gave it a second thought. I mean, it's only a few blocks from my home - way closer than Jewel. And I certainly don't get advice from Jewel, old-fashioned or otherwise. Maybe this store did fit my values. It was at least worth a try.

So I walk in, and the store is humongous. I'm talking Wal*Mart-sized aisles, and Costco-high ceilings. More warehouse than soda shop. This inspired a mixed reaction: Sweet, maybe their prices are low, followed by Ugh, I'll have to weed through zillions of products. My first thought was definitely not "local grocer." Where was the produce guy spritzing the tomatoes? Where was the pimply teenager sweeping the floor?

Besides comparing the store to its own branding, I also found myself comparing it to Jewel. But in this regard I was further disappointed. I spent a full hour wandering Strack & Van Til that first time, head up, taking in every sign. You might say I was mapping the store's layout to my mental blueprint of a grocery store. And when it didn't match up, I kept thinking, "This isn't where Jewel puts the cereal" and "This isn't how Jewel does its endcaps."

But it didn't seem fair to compare the store to competitors or branding. I was on a search for authenticity, after all, so I decided to run a little test.

As I navigated the produce section, I came upon the fresh herbs. Now typically, I don't buy fresh herbs because of the waste. No recipe requires much more than a pinch of this or a sprig of that, and inevitably, a big clump of greens goes bad in my crisper. But as I eyed the cilantro, I had an idea. I would take only as much as I needed, and then see if the checkout person would charge me. Because a real "local grocer" would pass it by the register with a wink.

So I literally took two stems of cilantro, weighing basically nothing, and stuck them in a plastic bag. The price was 69 cents a bunch.

When I got to the checkout, the cashier said "Is this cilantro?" I smiled and said "Yeah, though I only needed a little bit, heh heh. Hope that's okay!" She said "Sure, it's fine," and rung it up at full price. 69 cents.

I left disappointed. Not only was this store WAY different than Jewel, it was SO not the "good old-fashioned advice" place I'd been picturing. Even though my expectations were probably unfair, they weren't met and I was let down. I resigned to never go again.

However...it was so close to home. A two-minute drive. And it's not like this place was worse than Jewel. Just...different. Is different necessarily bad?

The following week, I decided to give it one more try.

This time, I wasn't quite so freaked about finding my way around. I remembered where to find the cereal, and that lemonade was over by juice, around the corner from milk. I was able to shop my list more efficiently, and this allowed me way more freedom to explore new areas (an olive bar! a fancy cheese cooler!) I spent less time, but I think I bought more.

And you know what else, the staff seemed infinitely friendlier too. A stock boy helped me locate ricotta cheese, without seeming the least bit annoyed. When the bagger discovered that my glass milk bottle was leaky, she cheerily ran to get me another. And when I was just out the door, another staffer ran after me to hand me the cinnamon I'd left at the checkout! It seemed like this time, they were going above and beyond. Like a local grocer would.

But the best part was when I saw the grocer himself. I turned and there he was, the man from the sign! Walking into an office that said "Management." It felt like a flash of 1950's dream sequence. I liked that he wasn't just some random old dude - he was actually the real manager of this very store. And knowing that he advertises in my neighborhood (and is probably struggling to compete for customers on my very street) is enough to endear him to me. Maybe next time, he'll come out and give me some good advice.

---

The devil you know is still a devil. The devil you don't know could be worse, or it could be better. But the chance is probably 50/50, so isn't it worth a shot? I know that many retailers hesitate to make any major changes to their stores, because of the outcry that typically follows. Loyal shoppers of 40 years throw up their hands and go elsewhere. But I urge retailers and shoppers alike to reconsider. Be patient, and give it a second try.

Because when everything is new, it's totally overwhelming. The first time we shop for the same products in a new place, it's essentially a search for familiarity. It's like seeking out McDonald's in a foreign country.

But the next time we visit that country, we venture out. We turn down new streets and sample new tastes. Likewise, the second time we shop, the comfort level is way higher. We can find our repeat purchases more easily, so we have more mindspace to discover something new. I can't buy fancy olives until I've found the milk.

This world is full of disappointments, and it's easier to remember them than the pleasant surprises. However, if there's something you've been hanging on to, admittedly or not due to a distaste for change, I encourage you to sample the devil you don't know. It might not be such a devil after all.

Shopping for The Dress

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 22:37:00 +0000

First of all, before everyone freaks out, no. This is not The Dress. Just the first one I tried on.

---

So as you all know, I've got a wedding to plan. This is a thrilling, emotional, stressful journey in which my money is taken from my wallet in all sorts of new ways.

You see, the wedding industry knows that every bride is secretly irrational. They know that if they push the right buttons, brides will turn to piles of cash before their very eyes. Buttons like, "This is the day you've been dreaming of, ever since you were a little girl!" "Your wedding only happens once!" "It's the happiest day of your life!"

But let me get this straight: It's the happiest day of my life...therefore I should spend $120 per person on dinner? My wedding only happens once...therefore I should pay $6,000 to rent a room? I've been dreaming of this day forever...therefore I should buy $2,000 worth of flowers? Are you people nuts?

These people are not, in fact, nuts. The problem is, they think I am. They think all brides are. And to be honest, many brides ARE nuts. Their standards are raised, their price gauges busted. It's all so expensive, what's another $3,000 for the dress?

Oh, the dress. That marvelous pile of satin and tulle, that giant white cream puff of lace and beads.

That overpriced, overhyped tearjerker that you only wear for ten hours! Of every nuptially-related search that I've gone through so far, shopping for my dress has been by far the most ridiculous. People, if it's been a while since you were married, or if you have yet to go through this crazy time, let me share with you a little transmission from the desperate, manipulative and utterly backwards world of wedding gown shopping.

In order of increasing weirdness:

The appointments. One cannot simply walk into a bridal shop and start trying on dresses. Oh no. One must make an appointment. These relics of the past serve to hammer home the "personal service" point, but man, are they annoying. Mainly because they slow everything down, a la "Our next appointment is two weeks from Tuesday." But also because you walk in, already feeling this big obligation to buy. For that hour, you are the only customer in the store. I don't need any more pressure!

The clamps. Gowns in the store are called "samples," and all samples are a "sample size." If this size is too big for you, which it probably is, stores will clamp the dress together to make it fit. I am not joking when I say that these clamps look like they were recently used to hold the 2x4's on the bandsaw down at Ace Hardware. They are huge and strong, come in all sorts of bridal colors like Home Depot Orange, and are incredibly difficult to squeeze.

Therefore, shop attendants must double as construction workers, complimenting you on your figure, pulling the dress tight, then clamping it tighter with every ounce of strength they've got. The clamps look and feel completely wrong for this environment, which is otherwise all soft and pink and ruffly. Yet every shop I've visited uses them. Could some aspiring wedding entrepreneur please come out with proper dress clips, so stores could stop using this clumsy workaround?

The partial nudity. Dressing rooms in gown stores are HUGE. Plenty of room for your mom, your sister, your friend, your attendant and her assistant. Pretty much the whole store could fit in there, and they sometimes do. But is there another, smaller room for you to get down to your skivvies? Nope. You've got to dress and undress, dress and undress, in front of all those people.

Fortunately for me, I've had a smaller entourage (sometimes even going alone) and been blessed with only one or two employees in my room at a time. But still. If I'd known about all this standing around in a corset and undies, I might have shaved my legs.

The lack of browsing. Wedding stores tout their personal service like they invented it. What this means is that when you arrive, you describe your taste, then THEY choose the dresses you see. It's rare to find a big, open store with racks for browsing. Rather, a woman rushes back and forth from your room to "the back," pulling only dresses that she thinks you will like.

This process may work well in theory (she makes real-time adjustments to her selections based on your reaction to each dress) and has grounding in operations (if customers handled all the dresses, they would get dirty faster) but it still feels really opaque to me. Like I am some rich idiot to be catered to, rather than a consumer with any control over what I see. I often leave thinking, "Man, I only tried 9 dresses and I know she has hundreds back there." How is hiding the product a good way to sell it?

The veil. Right at the end, when you've found a dress that just might be The One, the attendant says, "Oh sweetie, that looks fabulous! Here, let me get you a veil." She slides the comb into your hair, and suddenly your whole head is framed in a halo of white lace.

I must admit, this works a little too well. Even on me, the most skeptical shopper, the most hyper-aware of this type of trickery. Veils are probably Sales Tool Numero Uno at bridal shops, because with a veil on your head, it's no longer dress-up. It's the real deal. It's like HOLY CRAP I AM TOTALLY GETTING MARRIED. It's thrilling and scary and magical. And you know what happens - I just integrate the dress I'm wearing right into that vision. Of course later, when I'm stewing over my options, it's hard to mentally separate the two. So reader, beware the veil and its powers of influence. Keep your focus on the dress.

The lack of information. This is the weirdest of them all. Let's say you've found a dress you like. It fits your style, flatters your figure, makes you feel like a real bride. But let's say your mom isn't there. What might you want to do next? Perhaps get her opinion? How about taking a picture? Many stores say no.

And the reason for it is even weirder. Historically, bridal shops have always had exclusivity agreements with designers. So a particular brand might only be found at one store in all of Illinois. This creates the impression that you can only buy this dress in this store. And stores have ridden the exclusivity wave for years, because a bride in Chicago could only really buy gowns in Chicago.

However, as the internet gains traction as a viable gown resource, the possibility of brides price-comparing and 'buying the same dress somewhere else' becomes even greater. There are discounters and consigners and Craigslist and you can even buy cheap knockoffs from China. So stores are freaked out - after all, they're losing their competitive edge. Their response strategy? Limiting the amount of information that a bride can leave with. If she can't look it up, she can't find it cheaper. Hence, no photos.

But surely you could write down its brand and style name, so you could look it up for future reference? Nope. Many stores literally rip the labels out of sample gowns, so that you cannot even tell which dress you are trying on.

I read about this shocking tactic in a handy book, but found it hard to believe until I experienced it firsthand. I was in a pretty posh store, and I liked a dress by designer Melissa Sweet. But it was pricey, and I wasn't ready to buy. I asked the owner, "Which dress is this again, so I can remember it?" She said, "It's the Melissa Sweet." I said, "I know, but which one? I know they all have style names, or numbers or something." "Nope," she said, looking down at her hands. "That's all you need to know."

Wow! Wow. Well, all I need to know is that I won't be making my purchase here!

---

Of course, all of these elements serve to make me, the bride-to-be, feel completely helpless. I can't walk in off the street, can't feel comfortable in the dressing room, can't browse a wide selection or pick my samples, can't take pictures, and sometimes, can't even know what I'm trying on. It's retail manipulation at its worst, and I'm getting pretty tired of playing the game.

Now of course, I want a beautiful dress. I want a dress that is as unique as I am. I want a dress that will make my boyfriend cry, that will make the whole room gasp, and that will still look awesome in photos 50 years from now. This is no small request! Therefore, this is already no easy shopping trip.

But I also think that finding the dress is intricately tied to the retail experience surrounding it. I haven't found my dress yet, and I think it might be because I haven't found my store yet. Sure, I am looking for an ivory gown with a mermaid cut, lightweight material, tasteful ruffles, no beads, no sparkles, no lace, and some type of sash or bow. But I am also looking for a low-pressure environment with friendly, honest, forthcoming employees, lots of choice, and the ability to deliberate in private. Oh, and no veils until I say so.

Wish me luck.

Take my return, please

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Sat, 08 Dec 2007 23:15:00 +0000

Through a series of fortunate events, my little brother recently managed to win himself a copy of Microsoft Office Ultimate during a Halo 3 tournament on campus.

For those of you who don't know Noah, my 20-year-old brother is a bona fide scary-smart genius. He's also a typical sophomore in college, strapped for cash and struggling to stay on top of his workload. He does not want or need Microsoft Office Ultimate. Like, at all.

But he enters this video game competition. The whole thing is designed around raffle tickets. The incentive to stay in the game longer is not one top prize, but simply more chances to win the raffle. Noah drops out in the first round, but he decides to hang around on the off chance that he might still win.

When his ticket number is called, the college crowd actually laughs at him. They all seem to think that Office is a sad, sad second place prize (first place was an Xbox). They yell things like "You can download it for free!" One kid approaches him a few minutes later, saying "You know, I could actually use that - I'll give you 20 bucks for it?" Noah hesitates, then takes the kid's number just in case.

When he gets back to his dorm room, my brother looks up the product, just in case. OH MY GOD. MS Office Ultimate ("Ultimate" being the key word) is a high-end bundle of productivity software valued at over $700! Cha-ching! Who's laughing now?

And so, his journey to cash in begins.

First, he brings the bright yellow box to Best Buy. But he's turned away. Their policy: "Sorry, we can't take returns without a receipt if they are over $100."

Then, he goes to Circuit City. Again, a no-go. Their policy: "Actually, we do carry that product but after scanning this particular one, we're showing that it wasn't bought at a Circuit City."

Next, he tries CompUSA. His third rejection. Their terms: "We flat-out don't take returns without a receipt."

Finally, he heads to Office Depot. Here's how the conversation goes.

Noah: I want to return this. Will you take it back?
Office Depot Guy: Sorry, we actually just sent back our entire shipment of MS Office, because the new ones are coming out.
Noah: Oh.
ODG: But wait just a minute, let me see that box - this IS the new version! Okay, here is your store credit for $727.

SEVEN HUNDRED BUCKS TO OFFICE DEPOT. That is what he has won. That is actually pretty awesome, if you like office products. (Or know someone who does - Noah ended up trading it for cash with a small-business-owning family friend!)

Of course, what his dorky older sister finds most interesting about this story is the varying return policies of these four stores. To rewind for a sec, a return policy exists to a) please unhappy customers and b) thwart criminals who steal, then return. And it has to be a balance between the two. So let's review.

Best Buy: Must have receipt if over $100. This sounds like a businessperson's decision. "Well, let's look at the numbers here. It seems that 20% of the items stolen account for 80% of the loss, so let's draw the line somewhere that sounds reasonable to a shopper...okay, $100." Basically, if people want to steal cheap things from Best Buy, and return them with no receipt, Best Buy is willing to let that go. Because they don't want to piss off Joe Honest whose universal remote is broken and his wife threw out the receipt. They are okay paying thieves for their own smaller-ticket items, as long as they're not also paying them for plasma TVs.

Still, I think Best Buy's policy is a bit confusing. I'm sure they get lots of customers scratching their heads: "How does the item being $100 relate to my ability to return it?" And technical close-calls: "It was $100 when I bought it, but now it's on sale for $79.99?" It sounds like a good compromise, but it's probably more annoying for shoppers, while still being somewhat amenable to thieves. Grade: B+.

Circuit City: Product must have been bought at their store. This seems reasonable for consumers, and the store is smart to scan the item. However, what if the product was stolen at their store? Would the scanner tell them that? (That would be really cool - front line employees could be nabbing unsuspecting criminals!) If it doesn't tell you whether the item was bought or stolen, though, this policy has little merit in stopping crime. It does, however, make good sense for honest customers, especially honest customers who live in the digital age. Grade: A if the scanner knows, A- if it doesn't.

CompUSA: No returns without a receipt. This is the most old-school, black and white, 'it is or it isn't' kind of policy. It reminds me of a simpler time, before everything we touched had electronic copies. CompUSA must be a tricky place for thieves to make headway. It's probably also a place where lots of honest customers get pissed. Grade: C.

Office Depot: We just want your product. I think this must have been a fluke. Stores typically don't take back extra items because it adds to their inventory. Inventories are planned so that the store sells everything it has. If you start accepting every Joe Schmo's unwanted products, you suddenly have an imbalance. Maybe this employee thought to himself, "That Office Ultimate is gonna be the hit of the season - it can't hurt to have an extra one on our shelves!" But this is pretty shortsighted, and I'm doubting it's company policy. My brother was a customer, bordering on dishonest, and he walked away with a giant store credit. No price minimum, no package scan, and no receipt. I have to imagine this place is somewhat easy to scam. Grade: D.

Ultimately, stores don't want you to return things. They want to take your money and give you stuff. However, as our society becomes more and more full of choice, we as consumers become increasingly indecisive. Return policies are our safety net, and stores actually use them as a selling point. "We're low-commitment," the policies tell people. "You don't have to be sure with us." They make it easy for shoppers to buy on impulse, and to buy more than they really need. "We can always return it," we say to ourselves.

Here's what I'd like stores to do. I can guarantee you they'll never do it, because it runs counter to human nature, but here it is anyway. If you want to return something, we will give you half of what that item cost. You want to return a $60 dress? Here's $30. What, you decided you don't like it anymore? Oooh, sorry. Shoulda tried it on first.

I know, I know, this would force people to actually make real decisions in the store. It would also cause them to truly consider the price of something, in relation to its worth. Which is something we all seem to have forgotten.

Stores will never do this because of all the excuses - something broke, didn't fit, the giftee hated it, dog ate the receipt, and on and on. They know humans aren't perfect, and that we need this Plan B. But I still think some responsibility should fall on our shoulders. If stores would give shoppers fewer choices and less return-policy flexibility, I actually think we'd become smarter, better shoppers. Plus, thieves would have to find something else to do.

Where it counts

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 03:01:00 +0000

Folks, it's that time of year again. Welcome to Round Two of the Bathroom Blogfest. Bloggers around the world will be asking and answering questions about the importance of restrooms in the customer experience.

I, however, have a slightly different kind of question. It's a bit more...personal. This question was posed to me many years ago, when I was a teenage counselor at summer camp. It shocked me, and it may shock you too.

On the first night of camp, before the kids arrived, the counselors were playing getting-to-know-you games. One went like this: the camp director would call out a category with two options, and we'd self-organize into groups based on our choices. For instance, he'd say "Peanut butter: creamy or crunchy?" The creamy folks would run to one side of the room; the crunchy folks, the other. We'd all laugh and high-five over our shared preferences. The game went on for a while - "Airplane seat: window or aisle?" "Superpower: flight or invisibility?"

But then came a question that reverberated throughout the big rec hall. "Toilet paper: crumple or fold?"

Wait - people fold?

I had no idea anyone folded their toilet paper. What, like, in half? In thirds? In origami cranes? I was shocked and intrigued. But no time for questions - I ran to the crumple team, where everyone was hysterical. We crumplers were cracking up with lines like, "Hell yeah I crumple!" and "Who has time to fold?" Meanwhile, the folders were looking at us like we were heathens: "Those people scrunch up their toilet paper?" "Do they not care about anything?"

---

As you may know, I am forever preoccupied with an ongoing quest to better understand the details of people's everyday lives. Not only their shopping lists, but their secrets, their morning rituals, what they have in their bags, wallets and fridges. And today is no exception. Dear reader, please take my poll.

more at twiigs.com...

Thanks. I can't tell you how excited I am to see these results.

Now, when I heard this question for the first time, not only was I surprised to learn that people did things differently than me, I was amazed at how enthusiastic the two sides became. We immediately bonded within our groups. I think there was even some chanting, along the lines of "CRUM-PLE! CRUM-PLE!" Men and women, old and young, we all cared passionately about our TP.

And we still do. I would argue that toilet paper represents the make-or-break moment of the restroom experience. If it's great, everything else can be forgiven. And if it's bad, or (gasp) gone, well, all the scented soap in the world won't bring it back.

Because let's get specific for a moment here. There are a number of ways in which we physically interact with the bathroom around us. Our feet touch the floor. Our hands touch the doors, the flushers and the faucets. Sometimes our waists touch the counter. But our nether regions - invariably our most personal, private parts - touch one thing and one thing only. So what are we going to care most about?

Now I don't think any sane consumer would articulate this if asked, but I believe that every other element in a restroom only serves as a clue as to whether or not the toilet paper is good. When I'm waiting in line, I'm subconsciously evaluating all these elements, in an effort to guess at what the TP situation will be. If I step into a restroom and the floor is marble, I heave a secret sigh of relief. I know it'll be plush. And if I step into a restroom and there is garbage on the floor, fear strikes my heart. I check to make sure there is some in my stall before I even shut the door.

Now sometimes, the toilet paper is inconsistent with the rest of the experience. In this case, I typically weight TP higher when casting my overall vote. If the bathroom is nice but the toilet paper is thin and abrasive, it speaks volumes. I now know that this store/office/restaurant has tried to make surface improvements in order to wow people, but the fancy tissue box and designer art are only aesthetic. This place doesn't really care. And conversely, if the bathroom is nothing special but the toilet paper is soft and durable, with ribs or quilts or clouds, I feel that the place is reaching out to me. That they are saying, "We know where it counts."

Like any experience, we expect bathrooms to be consistent. And obviously, women and men would love it if they were all havens of comfort and relaxation. But in reality, they can't all be the Shangri-La of restrooms, and I understand that. My assertion is simply that if you were going to do one thing to improve your restroom - just ONE thing - that one thing should be to upgrade your toilet paper. People will appreciate this on a much deeper level than if you went for fancy faucets. It's, shall we say, closer to home.

Whether you crumple or fold, welcome to the Bathroom Blogfest!

For more Bathroom Blogfest all week long, please check out:

Adaptive Path
Blog Till You Drop
Checking Out and Checking In
Customer Experience Crossroads
Customers Are Always
Customers Rock!
Diva Marketing
The Engaging Brand
Experienceology
Fast Company Now
Flooring the Consumer
getFreshMinds
K+B DeltaVee
Library Bytes
Life and Its Little Pleasures
Practical Katie
Purple Wren
Qualitative Research
Results Revolution
Spirit Women
Transcultural
The Ultimate Corporate Entrepreneur

Show a little care

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 05:27:00 +0000

Ladies and gentlemen, today we're going to talk about etiquette. Retail etiquette.

To help you understand the early roots of my interest in this topic, I'd like to start with a song from my childhood. It's by Carol Johnson, a singer who heavily influenced my musical upbringing. I listened to this song from the tape deck of my Chevy Astro van, while my mom drove me to and from gymnastics. And in those formative years, long before the advent of Retail Planning, one song forever altered my perspective on proper in-store behavior. The song was called "Show A Little Care."

(Yes, I still remember the words, twenty years later).

---

Mrs. Jones hangs up the clothes, in the store where she works each day
Folds and stacks, and straightens the racks, arranging a nice display
But those messy shoppers, they get so sloppy, they leave things in a heap -
And a tangled mess, is all that's left, of the work she did so neat.

Would you do a thing like that? No way!
Would you do a thing like that? No way!
Now who would do a thing like that? No, no, no, not me!
Show a little care for the people out there, who care for you and me.

---

Oh, that poor, dear Mrs. Jones. My heart went out to her. And as the song clearly stated, I was taught from an early age to not "do a thing like that." I wouldn't be a messy shopper. No way! It was burned in my brain.

But is helping out, really helping out? You be the judge. Test your retail etiquette with this fun quiz.

Question 1:
You're in a clothing store. Sweaters are folded neatly on a table. You start looking for your size. You unfold a medium, then a small. The small looks right, so you decide to take it. Quick: what do you do with the medium?

a) Fold it back up as neatly as you can
b) Leave it unfolded
c) Hide it behind a plant

In this scenario, I tend to go with "a." When I unfold something and decide not to pursue it further, I make my best attempt to recreate the corporate-issued, store-perfect folding protocol. But I fail. I fail every time. I wasn't trained! I don't know the sleeve trick! Try as I might, I simply cannot make the sweater look like all the rest. So am I really helping?

My guess is, I'm not. I feel like the correct answer here is "b." The employees are going to have to re-fold it anyway. Still I wonder, do they appreciate my attempt? Do they come over later and say "Aww, this customer really tried!" Or was my childhood direction misguided? Grounded in an ideal reality that would never come to pass? I want to help Mrs. Jones. I just don't know if I can.

Question 2:
Now you're ready to try on some clothes. A salesperson shows you to a fitting room. You try things on, you shuffle hangers, you toss things in the "yes" pile and the "maybe" pile. You finally decide to buy one thing, and leave the other six. Quick: what do you do with the unwanted items?

a) You hang them up, and bring them around the store, putting them back where they belong
b) You hang them up, and bring them to a reject rack just outside the room
c) You leave with the shirt you are buying. The salesperson can deal with it.*

*It's her job, right?

I face this dilemma on a regular basis, and I must admit, I'm not consistent with my choices. On very rare occasions, when the store and staff are nice, I will actually go with "a," because I actually feel like helping. Typically, though, I'll go with "b" if said rack exists. But if I'm tired, or if the staff aren't around, or if the store's already a mess, I'll just walk out. Sorry, Mrs. Jones. Maybe if your dressing rooms were neater or you were nicer, I'd feel more of an obligation.

Question 3a:
Now you're in the grocery store. You pick up a bottle of ketchup, put it in your cart, and continue shopping. Halfway through the store, you remember that you bought ketchup last time, and you totally don't need more. You are now in the paper towel aisle. Quick: what do you do with the ketchup?

a) Bring it back to the ketchup aisle
b) Leave it in your cart
c) Stick it on a shelf next to some Brawny

Come on, people. You know you go with "c." At least, I do.

Question 3b:
What if the item had to be refrigerated? Like cheese, or yogurt?

Question 3c:
What if you were in Whole Foods?

Basically, I think the question "How polite are your shoppers?" can be easily answered with "Well, how polite are your employees?" Because it's not like I'm univerally kind, or universally careless. I mean, I re-fold sweaters in J. Crew, but I also leave ketchup in Aisle 9. This is partly because the staff at J. Crew give me smiles, and the staff at Jewel give me blank looks. People, respect is a two-way street. I would not hide the ketchup at Whole Foods.

I'd like to think Mrs. Jones is retired by now. Maybe her little boutique lives on, run by her daughter. Or maybe The Gap moved in next door and put her out of business. Either way, I'm glad she showed a little care. If stores would show me a little care, I'd gladly return the favor.

You've lost me

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Tue, 25 Sep 2007 01:08:00 +0000

So here's the scenario. You call up a fabric store, curious if they have a particular brand of quilting ruler. (The reason why you need a quilting ruler in the first place is, um, outside the scope of this post). A kindly-sounding woman answers the phone. She has to go and check, and she graciously asks if you can be placed on hold. You agree. No problem.

Time passes. During this time, you experience profound psychological shifts. The very essence of your humanity is called into question. Here is the progression of your thoughts:

00:21 That woman sounded so nice. I'll bet she has adorable grandchildren.

00:59 She must be walking past the wrapping paper, the ribbon, the fabric, the yarn, and the scissors! I hope all this walking doesn't hurt her kind, old feet.

01:37 This hold music is boring.

01:59 She's definitely looking through the rulers right now.

02:42 Maybe she's looking for the head of the ruler department, and he is on the other side of the store. I bet she's paging that guy right now.

03:15 Maybe the head of the ruler department is outside, taking a smoke break. I bet that guy's a total jerk. I bet he and my lady get in workplace disagreements all the time.

04:15 Man, I've been on hold a long time. It's been at least ten minutes!

04:54 Oh my god, where is this woman? Is she just taking her sweet ass time? Does she not have the capacity to walk more than 10 feet an hour?

05:33 Why does Jo-Ann Fabrics hire idiots? Maybe they have some affirmative action policy for slow, stupid people.

06:17 That woman is probably taking HER smoke break! I bet she forgot all about me! Or she thought I wouldn't wait - that's it! She probably thought to herself, "Well, it's been so long now, that chick on the phone MUST have hung up by now." God, I feel stupid for ever trusting a word she said.

06:48 Oh jeez, I hope she hasn't fallen under a ream of chenille and broken her hip! Then I'd feel terrible! I'm such a mean, impatient person. Okay. I can wait. Breathe in, breathe out.

07:26 All right, that's it. I don't care anymore. I don't care if she's still looking, if she's stopped looking, or if she's trapped under a mountain of rulers and is eating her own arm off. I have waited on hold for what feels like twenty minutes. I want out. I'm hanging up.

07:29 No wait, I can't do it. What if she's just about to pick up the phone? What if she's been looking high and low, searching through dusty catalogs and moldy storage basements, and she's got the ruler in hand? And she's worked SO HARD to find this for me, and she comes back, and she hears a dial tone? She'll kill herself! I can't do that to another human being! I'll wait.

07:45 But seriously, how long does it take? I mean, how big is the store? How many rulers must she look through? And I'm using cellphone minutes, people! I'm not one of those thousand-minute-per-month schmos, either! I'm talking 450! Every minute is precious! You are messing with my currency! Jo-Ann, you are robbing me point-blank - and I'm letting you do it! That's it, I'm hanging up.

07:51 Oh god, so help me but I can't do it. I just can't do it. She could be inches away. She could be scarred and bleeding, the paramedics pushing her bed on wheels, sirens blaring, ten firemen clearing the path from the accident site to the phone, and she's yelling "The ruler! I've got the ruler!" I can't let her die, mission unaccomplished!

08:12 Pick up the phone...NOW. Okay, NOW. Come on, lady. Get back to the phone...NOW.

08:25 Oh my god oh my god oh my god! What to do what to do what to do? Finger is trembling over the "End" button.

08:35 Please don't let my karma be forever ruined!

08:36 Beep.

Employee at Jo-Ann Fabrics, I'm sorry. You lost me. I had all the best intentions, but I no longer care about the ruler. I'm sure you have adorable grandchildren.

I got engaged!

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Tue, 21 Aug 2007 20:57:00 +0000

It was pretty freaking wonderful.

Help us look good

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 22:01:00 +0000

I recently bought new glasses. If you've ever gone through this process, you know that it can be agonizing.

First, you try on every single pair that remotely piques your interest. You hold onto the 'maybes' and try them again. Then you switch and check, switch and check, until you've narrowed it down to one pair. Even then, when you've chosen your candidate, you still have to scrutinize your face from every possible angle, look in every mirror in the store, and double-check against all the other pairs AGAIN in order to be absolutely sure you've found the best glasses for your face.

The process reminds me of the phenomenon that happens when you say a particular word too many times. Eventually, that word sounds funny. Any word can sound funny, if you say it enough times. (Try it!) Likewise, after checking my own face in the mirror six hundred times, it started to look funny. I began scrutinizing my features. God, my nose is long. God, my eyes are close together. Am I normal? Or am I funny-looking? Just like with the word, the familiar becomes strange.

So I finally found my pair, but I wasn't completely sold. They were the best pair in the store for me, but they didn't look Fabulous. They just looked Good. I realized this might be because I still thought my own face looked weird. So I tried something else.

I took my hair out of its ponytail, rumpled it a bit, put on lip gloss, and smiled. This time, I thought the glasses looked great. My decision was made.

---

This leads me to a very basic insight: People buy things when they look good. But it's not just the new item that has to look good. It's everything. When I looked better overall, the glasses looked better too.

This insight can be quite useful for shoppers. If your goal is to buy a new pair of jeans, go shopping on a "thin day." If you feel good about your body, the jeans will practically buy themselves. If you want a new bathing suit, go shopping when you are tan. If you want new shoes, get a pedicure, and wear the clothes that you'll wear with the shoes. Et cetera.

Likewise, don't shop for clothing after a night of alcohol and fried food. Don't shop for makeup when your skin is terrible. Unless, of course, you don't actually want to buy anything.

This insight is also useful for retailers. If you want girls to buy your prom dresses, don't make them try them on in their white gym socks. Give them heels, for god's sake. They will look ten times better, and will be more likely to buy the dress. Who knows - they might even buy the shoes too.

So my appeal is this: Stores should find ways to make their shoppers look better. Easy touches like flattering lighting, color in the dressing rooms, and relevant accessories will help someone like the way they look.

Or better yet, why don't stores combine shopping with beauty? You enter the store, get a facial and your hair blow-dried, then look at outfits. Man. I would end up buying so much more this way. Because I get my hair done what, four times a year? But after walking out of the salon, I feel that I am at my absolute best. The top of my game, if you will. If I were to shop right then, who knows how much I would spend. I'd probably love everything I tried, because in the mirror was this fabulous me with perfect hair. The glasses would look better, the dress would look better, I bet even the purse or shoes (or lamp or car) would look better.

Now the downside, of course, is that this can become a distortion of reality. And that's where the line begins to blur. Stores that use "slimming mirrors" face ethical controversy. And there's always the risk that someone loves the dress, gets it home, and hates it. "This looked so much better in the store" is a complaint I've definitely heard. But on the other hand, let's face it - consumers today are still seeking a suspension of reality. Permission to forget who they really are, and become someone better.

Here's my stance. If the retailer helps you to simply perceive yourself as looking better, then that's pretty close to lying and I feel it's a disservice. But if the retailer helps you to actually look better, with substantive beauty services or advice, then I think that would be great. Oh, and profitable too.

---

I bought the glasses. They were perfect. And as I wore them each day, a funny thing happened. I would almost subconsciously recall the feeling I had about them in the store. It was a very private, personal feeling, something along the lines of "I look so smart and sophisticated." And you know, that feeling lives on, somewhere deep inside my brain. So even if the store had only made me look better during that brief "first impression," I've decided the first impression is critical. Not only for swaying me to buy the product, but for actually shaping my attitude towards the product during its lifetime of use.

So retailers, help us look good. We will like how we look inside your walls, buy more products, AND feel better about those products long after we've paid our credit card bills.

Solving a better problem

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 01:55:00 +0000

I recently bought gift cards for a project at work. I don't typically buy gift cards, so it had been a while. But in case you too prefer more tangible presents, let me send you a transmission from the world of gift cards: Things are getting crazy over here!

First, a brief summary of why people DO buy gift cards. They don't know the person that well. They don't feel confident in their ability to find the right gift. They imagine the recipient would prefer to do their own shopping. They have a very set budget. Gift cards are convenient and "you can't go wrong."

Next, a brief summary of why people DON'T buy gift cards. They are impersonal. They ask the recipient to do the work of shopping. They are the equivalent of handing someone cash. They say exactly how much you spent. They seem generic and trivial. They are "a cop-out."

Regardless, sales of gift cards are rising each year, and so I have to imagine shoppers are weighing the pros favorably against the cons. But some of those cons are still keeping shoppers like me away, so I think there's room for improvement.

But hold the phone. I said improvement, not meaningless, over-the-top embellishment. Folks, the gift cards I purchased were from Woodfield Mall, an upscale shopping center in the Chicago suburbs. Each card came with six (6) items.

You've got your card, you've got your note, you've got your envelope, you've got your box, your sleeve, and your bag. Card goes in envelope with note, envelope goes in box, box slides into sleeve, and sleeve drops into bag. Can we say, overpackaged?

Now, I think I know what the designers of the Woodfield Mall gift card extravaganza were thinking. They probably had research which said, "30% of our shoppers agree that gift cards are not an adequate gift." So they did the first thing that came to mind: they dressed it up. Made it fancier. Now it looks more like jewelry, or chocolates. There are at least three moments of surprise in this experience - opening the bag, opening the box, and opening the envelope. I'd even venture to guess that when someone finally gets to the card inside, they're a bit let down. "What's this? Ooh, what's this? Ooooh, now what's this? Oh, a gift card."

But even if that recipient is pleased as punch to get a gift card to a mall, I'm not sure this redesign has made anyone a born-again gift card believer. Because I feel they have solved the wrong problem.

They went from a generic problem (gift cards aren't good enough) to a generic solution (let's make them seem better). But let's try digging a little deeper, shall we? Why aren't they good enough?

1. Because they are impersonal. There is nothing about the gift card, save your choice of store, that personalizes the present. He's a sports nut? Let's get him a gift card to Foot Locker! But that was your only real "decision," and it's not exactly "thoughtful."

So, what are ways of making gift cards more personal? The store could print your name and a note right onto the card. How about a note in your handwriting? How about your picture on the card? Better yet, what if you could bring in an old photo of you and the recipient, and the store could screen the photo onto the back of the card? Now that card is a keepsake for his wallet!

Or maybe the store offers gift cards in ten designs, so you can pick the style he'll like best. Maybe you could design your own card? Choose pictures of items he might want, to suggest what he could buy with the card? And once he's chosen the gift, how about a personal follow-up? Maybe the card allows him to enter a photo booth in the store, take a picture of himself with the item, and send it to you?

The point is, surely stores can dream up ways of making the card reflect the giver, the recipient, or both.

2. Because they are trivial. It's just a piece of plastic, after all, and once he cashes it in, the experience is over. Sure, now he has an actual gift, but what role did the card play? It sat in his wallet. It's nothing more than a representation of money. Meh.

So, what are ways of making gift cards meaningful? Useful beyond their primary function? Able to be priced at higher than their dollar value? Well, maybe the gift card isn't a card. Maybe it's a vase. The person receives the vase, brings it to the flower shop, and gets a free bouquet. Or the gift card is a picture frame. She brings it to Sears Portrait Studio for a free session.

Furthermore, if you boil down the function of a gift card, its purpose is to represent a gift until someone actually gets it. Maybe the gift card is a wrapped, empty box? A shopping bag, which you bring to the store and fill? A scanner, which you use to zap the item that you want, a la wedding registries? Stores should think about how to make that gift card work a little harder, so that it creates value beyond its cash equivalent.

3. Because the money thing is awkward. This one is tough. You don't necessarily want the person to know right away how much you've spent on them, yet you want them to receive that amount in the store.

So, what are some ways of making gift card values less awkward? Well, maybe we could make the dollar amount less hush-hush. More explicit and interesting. I know that in Jewish tradition, checks are often written in multiples of 18, which is considered lucky. For a wedding, you might give a check for $72. Maybe we could make the dollar amounts totally flexible, to reflect something similarly cultural.

Or perhaps the money could reflect the occasion? My birthday is January 10th. I'd sure love a gift card for $110. Or even just $10, where the card had a little calendar with January 10th circled. Birthday gift cards. Stores could also keep the dollar amount hidden, until you get to the store and find out what you've got. Now you have to come in! Ooh, what if it was a lottery? All gift cards cost $20, and yours has a value of at least $20, but it might be a lucky $100 winner!

---

Retailers love gift cards for various reasons. Pay us now, take the merchandise later; try our store for the first time; chances are you'll spend more than the value of the card. So if it's important enough, retailers should be looking for ways to optimize this product.

My point is that there are plenty of ideas to be found, when you think about the problem in a more specific, user-centered way. Instead of saying gift cards should look nicer, get to more tangible goals. In this case, gift cards should be more personal, more meaningful and less awkward. These are quite simply more interesting problems to solve.

However, dear shopper, at the end of the day, you're still giving someone the equivalent of cash. My final suggestion: why don't you try picking out an actual gift?

Self-checkout for dummies

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 16 Jul 2007 17:51:00 +0000

Oh, the self-checkout. That glorious innovation of the retail world. The unbridled freedom it brings to the quick-trip shopper. The confidence it inspires in its self-empowered users.

The Lord of the Flies is what it really is. There's a long line and no authority and suddenly, everybody wants to kill someone. I'd love to jump up and take control: You - over there! What's your problem? Get your debit card facing the right way! Load your groceries! There's an unexpected item in the bagging area! Get to it, man!

In reality, though, we all just kinda stand there, annoyed. The rules aren't posted, aren't enforced, and aren't even clear in the first place.

A few weeks ago, on the third of July, my local Jewel was hopping with youngsters buying beer and snacks for the holiday. Each person had been planning to run in, buy four things, and run out. But the line for the self-checkout was at least twelve people long.

Fortunately, the store's not stupid. They anticipated the rush. What did they do?

They brought in This Guy.

This guy might be the store owner, or some unfortunate soul from corporate. But thank god for him, because he enforced the rules. Rules that I forgot existed! I delighted in watching him stop people who were trying to cut the line, and helping shoppers who couldn't figure out why the machine was so mad at them.

It got me thinking. This guy is fabulous. He's making order from chaos. But he's not going to be here tomorrow. And the problems still are. The self-checkout may be helping the store process customers and save money, but it's got plenty of issues. And I believe these issues stem from a lack of clarity on the rules.

So in an effort to help you, me and everyone we know, here are my 5 rules of the self-checkout.

1. There Is A Line. How many times are you waiting in line, and some guy walks right up to a machine? Just cuts in front of all the patient folks? Buddy, there are no frontsies, no backsies, no cuts. There is a line, and it's your duty to find it. Oh, and there isn't a different line for each machine, either - there is one line for all of them. So wait your turn.

2. Pay Attention. How many times does some woman get to the front, receive a cellphone call, and totally tune out? When you are in line, and especially when you're first, you need to be scanning like a hawk. I want to see eagle eyes. When twelve angry shoppers are behind you, do not take your eye off the ball. For god's sake, do not answer your cellphone. Give the process some respect.

3. That Machine's Not Broken. This is classic crowd behavior. Nobody's using that machine, so it must be broken. Nobody continues to use that machine. It's like in the bathroom stalls, when nobody checks for feet - they just assume that one is unavailable because the door is closed. Why don't you try the machine, then tell us if it's broken? Don't worry, we won't let you lose your place in line.

4. Ten Items Or Less. Seriously. Don't bring your cart with a hundred dollars worth of kitty litter and tuna fish and expect to do the whole thing yourself. This line may move faster because there are 8 kiosks, but you are six hundred times slower than the lady at the register. If you need all that stuff, let the cashier do it. She is faster because unlike you, she is being paid for this.

5. The Bar Code Is Somewhere Else. Some people just cannot get a grip on the mechanism of the self-checkout. They're scanning and scanning, trying to get it to pick up their pineapple. Okay. Your pineapple has one sticker on its entire body. It's on the top. Stop scanning the bottom! Turn it! Flip it! Try something new! And people, you know who you are.

Now, I am making these rules up based simply on my own experiences. These rules were never shared, with me or anyone else. There was no training. No pamphlet. No Self-Checkout For Dummies. I mean, cashiers know what they're supposed to do. If their register freezes, they don't just stand there gazing into space. They get on the horn and fix it.

But shoppers are not cashiers. And as much as the store would love us to behave like free labor, we aren't going to do that because we don't know how. So stores, if you want your shoppers to behave like employees, then train us like employees, and post the rules. Your rules. Just tell us what you want us to do. We could use a little direction.

How does my butt look?

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 16:15:00 +0000

This will be a shorter post, as I'm a busy girl with people to see and things to do.

---

Okay, we all know that's not true! Ha ha! Ha...But I am hereby starting a conscious effort to write some shorter posts, so that we don't go for weeks with none.

Today I'd like to talk about Target. Yes, they are the gold standard for mass retail; yes, they go where no discounter has gone before; and yes, they are captivating the crowds with their cheap chic offering and uncluttered merchandising and helpful in-store messaging and, you get the point. Target does a lot of things right.

But I want to mention one more thing that they have knocked out of the park. It's a design change that could have only come from the shopper's own voice. It's a very easy tactic that provides surprise and delight, improves the shopping experience and, I'm guessing, helps the bottom line at the end of the day.

So, most clothing stores have dressing rooms. These stores give up valuable retail space because people want to try things on. But in my recent interviews with female shoppers, I'm starting to notice a pattern: women don't like dressing rooms. Either they are too busy to try it on now, or they feel uncomfortable in such a small, messy, poorly-lit, barely-private space. So they buy, they take home, they try on, and THEN they make their final purchase decision.

As you can imagine, stores hate this. Returns? Annoying! We could have been selling that shirt to someone else while it was sitting in your bedroom! Plus, why did we spend 300 square feet on dressing rooms if you're not going to use them?

Well, Target sells clothes. Target has dressing rooms. And Target wants its dressing rooms to get used. So I'm guessing it took a good hard look at the trying-it-on experience, and resolved to provide something that you couldn't get at home.

I don't know about you, but my home has it pretty good. A full-length mirror in my bedroom, a brightly-lit mirror in my bathroom, and my boyfriend to give me his honest opinion. But my home does not have one thing. Friends, my home lacks a butt mirror.

Target dressing rooms, on the other hand, have this mirror. It's surprisingly, refreshingly awesome. No more planting your hips squarely forward while you twist your neck around, catching a glimpse for three painful seconds. No more listening to a salesperson's pandering flattery. No more worrying about the question that has plagued women since the dawn of pants: How does my butt look in these?

I just bought pants at Target, and let me tell you, the butt mirror sealed the deal. It's at just the right angle to allow for a full viewing, like I was standing behind myself and checking myself out. And although I was undecided on the front of the pants, the back of the pants looked, in my opinion, well, okay. I thought it looked good.

Target, I'd rather try on clothes in your store than bring them home. Your dressing rooms are certainly no palace. But they have what no average residence contains. That infinitely wise, truth-bearing, all-knowing and all-illuminating butt mirror.

The A-hole and the Prius

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 25 Jun 2007 06:09:00 +0000

Just last week, an a-hole cut me off.

You see Officer, I was driving down Milwaukee Ave, which would be wide enough for two lanes if it weren't for the meters. Well, there's this cheeky move where you sneak up the "right lane," squeezing between the real traffic and the parked cars. When the light turns green, you step on the gas, cutting the whole line. While I will admit to pulling this move on rare occasions, I try to keep my road aggression to a minimum. I do believe in driving karma.

But apparently, this guy did not. He passed everyone, rolled up next to me, started moving before the light even changed, and boom - off he went.

Why did this surprise me? Because this a-hole was driving a Prius.

---

Eco-friendly products are the hottest ticket in town. They are showing up in every possible store, and every conceivable industry. Companies are creating new business models left and right based on our newfound desire to curb global warming.

And these days, there's an eco motivator for everyone. That woman might be buying organic milk because she wants the cows who produced her beverage to eat grass in a happy field. Or because she doesn't want her kids drinking bovine growth hormone with their cereal. Or maybe, just maybe she lives in a nice part of town, makes decent money, and knows that shoppers around her will note her organic choice. Come on, you know you look at what other people put down at the checkout.

But now, there is an even more compelling reason to go green. Eco-conscious products are finally paying off for consumers like us. Those compact fluorescent lightbulbs might be a couple bucks more at Wal*Mart, but my god, will you save on your electric bill. It's called ROI, baby, and it's convincing even the stingiest cynics to start reducing, reusing and recycling.

Now here's the thing. Lots of people have been making eco-conscious choices for a looong time. These people are the "true believers." They are kind, giving and selfless. They have been inconveniencing themselves for years by recycling, wearing organic cotton, composting their trash and carrying lunchboxes. These folks don't get refunds for bringing their own canvas shopping bags. They don't get tax breaks for biking to work. In their hearts, you will find only generosity. They are doing it for the children, the planet, the future of mankind.

But suddenly, a ton of newcomers have jumped on the LOHAS bandwagon. And you might say some of the true believers are, well, quietly ticked. It's kind of like when your favorite indy band gets on the radio. It's equal parts "this is mine, don't take it away from me" and "I told you so."

And sure, the new eco buzz is not all genuine. Greenwashing is everywhere and lots of companies are focusing on the perception factor, rather than the real deal. Debates run rampant as to whether hybrid cars are actually better for the environment, whether it's more important to buy fair-trade or local, and the countless definitions of the word "sustainable." Is Wal*Mart conserving gas because it's responsible, or because it's cheap?

I say, who cares? We finally have a growing pool of products that are actually good for the planet, while also being - gasp! - good for our bank accounts. Hybrid cars come to mind. And I have no problem with someone buying a Prius, not because they give a damn about the earth, but simply because they want to save a buck at the pump.

Now I'll admit, the Prius driver pulling a move on me was surprising. In my stereotyping monkey brain I assumed that anyone driving a Prius was making daisy chains in the car while singing along to Peter, Paul and Mary. Obviously, I stand corrected.

But you know what - I think it's great. I hope more scrooges with road rage buy Priuses in the near future. Because we are only going to make a dent in the climate crisis when everybody gets on board, and we just don't have enough nice guys to fill the ranks. We need the a-holes, too.

Snickers or an iPod?

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Fri, 08 Jun 2007 21:51:00 +0000

The last time I was in New York, my hip younger sister took me to a really cool vending machine.

No, seriously. It's a humongous vending machine, with a whole storefront built around it, and a whole kitchen behind it. A bunch of people work at this vending machine, supplying it with fresh, hot snacks.

And I am not talking about chips and pretzels. I am talking grilled cheese, chicken wings, pizza and piping hot donuts.

The place is called Bamn. It's a recent version of a much older concept, called the Automat, which last dotted New York's late-night scene in the 1940s. Big banks of vending machines were serviced by cooks in the back, and the places had real crockery, metal utensils and seating for people seeking a fast, cheap bite.

Today, the atmosphere is different and so are the customers. Those crazy kids come in at all hours of the night, pop two bucks in the change machine, and grab their corn dogs and peanut butter sandwiches. Then they continue on their walks of shame. Bamn has no seating, no waiters and no time wasted. It's the epitome of modern, urban convenience.

Now granted, this place is a gimmick. It's not much different from any burger dive - same greasy food, same rock bottom prices. The only difference is the machines.

But for commodities like fast food, I would argue that the machines provide a refreshing twist on the original. Has a Burger King employee ever truly brightened your day? Chances are you leave most fast-food counters feeling bored at best, angry at worst. And burgers are a commodity. At this point, you can compete on taste or you can compete on price. Most compete on price.

Now, let me be very clear. I think Bamn works for two reasons. The product is a commodity and the service is unnecessary. Vending machines deliver the product, effectively and efficiently, and no love is lost when no humans are present. But folks, vending machines are popping up in all kinds of crazy categories! And I think it's getting out of control.

Let's start with the bottom right. When the product is a commodity (low prices, little differentiation, readily available) and the service isn't adding any great value, then I say, vend away. Exhibit A: Bamn. Great job, guys. Way to catch a trend.

Next. Top right. Sometimes, the product is undifferentiated but the service can add great value. Example: hair care. You can blow dry your own hair with any generic dryer, but real women pay $20 and up to have someone do it for them. That service adds a mighty margin to an otherwise basic offering. So I don't think vending machines are necessarily going to boost this market, unless they can provide something that current services do not.

Enter Beautiful Vending. Its hair-straightener vending machines are popping up in women's restrooms all over the UK. One pound buys two minutes of time with a hot iron. This is smart because it creates a new usage occasion. Vending machines provide what beauticians cannot - ubiquity. Place one in every bar, and suddenly the entire hair care market expands.

Bottom left. Sometimes, the product is unique but the service is nonexistent. (Exhibit B: the chump at your local Blockbuster). The DVD market is crowded, and as Americans increasingly choose home over theater, lots of firms are dying to deliver movies to your set-top box or mailbox. Again, I think most shoppers' needs are being met, and the only way vending machines will grow the market is if they provide real improvement over existing models.

Enter companies like DVD Now. Its DVD vending machines are making waves at the grocery store, the drug store, and wherever shoppers make routine, weekly visits. One benefit rises to the top: the machines only carry new releases. No wasted space for box-office flops. So let's say you're not a huge movie person, and you don't subscribe to Netflix. Then you probably just want the hottest summer blockbuster. This machine helps "low-commitment shoppers" cut to the chase. It provides an easy solution for a new type of customer, thereby expanding the market for DVD rentals.

This brings me to the top left. Sometimes, though very rarely, the product is so unique that it creates and dominates a revolutionary new market. Sometimes, the product puts a company on the map and singlehandedly facilitates its turnaround. Sometimes the service surrounding the product is adding so much value, it can be described as the world's most amazing retail experience.

This is perhaps the only time where I would say that a vending machine is not going to help. In fact, it's going to hurt.

Ouch. Yes, those are real iPods. And real Bang & Olufsen, Sony and JBL accessories. They aren't cheap items. But their markdowns are being advertised loud and clear.

Great low prices? Is this a grocery store? Are we in Wal*Mart? Has anyone ever bought an iPod because it was cheap? Apple, talk to me. Are you trying to commoditize your product? Trying to undercut your outstanding service? Make it unnecessary for shoppers to visit the Apple Store? What can a vending machine possibly bring to your incredibly successful table?

Apparently it can bring a touchscreen interface. And that's about it. I don't see how this vending machine helps the iPod market. Its location doesn't expand product usage - this one was spotted in Macy's, where I can't imagine shoppers are in the mindset for electronics. It doesn't attract a new type of customer, unless you count the kind of customer who's hungry for a Snickers bar. (They're walking around Macy's, feeling hungry, they see a vending machine, and boom. They're looking at iPods. Unfortunately, now they are confused AND hungry).

No, this concept seems to only be providing more iPods in more places. And that is not such a good thing, because it will cause them to lose value. It's the law of supply and demand. Quite frankly, this vending machine has got to be the worst idea I've ever seen at retail. And folks, that's saying a lot.

---

You might be saying to yourself, "Everyone else is putting their products in vending machines, maybe I should too!" Well, I encourage you to consider within which quadrant your product currently lives. Is it already commoditized? Does it need a nudge in the other direction? What's your service experience like? Can a machine add value that a human cannot? Do vending machines make any sense at all?

For help answering these questions, I encourage you to refer to my handy vending machine planner's guide.

I hope that by now, this is self-explanatory.

Thinking outside the vestibule

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Wed, 09 May 2007 05:20:00 +0000

Disclaimer: this story happened about two years ago.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer: it's still pretty insane.

---

So in the city of Chicago, you don't really need a car. Depending on where you work, it is often quite feasible to commute using public transportation. In the spring of 2005, I was finishing up grad school and planning for my new life which included, among other things, finally buying a car.

But on this particular day in April, I did not have a car. What I had was a check, a check that desperately needed depositing. I was low on funds, and I'd made a regrettable transaction that would put my account in the red within 24 hours. Plus, I was going out of town the next day. So basically, it was now or never. But I wasn't worried. I walked out of my house and down the street, to my local LaSalle Bank.

I've been a customer of LaSalle Bank for almost ten years. I think I joined out of necessity; they were the prescribed bank of choice for Northwestern students when I was a freshman. But I'm fine with this. In their many years of service, I have found LaSalle to be convenient, consistent and pleasant. Hardly a blip on the radar.

So it's Friday, and it's 6:30. The branch closed at 6. Shoot. I walk around the side, and the drive-thru is open until 7. Sweet. The outdoor ATM is obviously open too, so I try that first. But this particular ATM decides to be "not accepting deposits at this time." Shoot.

Still, it's no problem. The drive-thru teller's window is open for another half an hour. So I wait for a car to drive away, and then I walk up to the window. There's a man sitting behind the glass. I give him a smile. Then, because I think I'm a pretty funny girl, I make a gesture like I'm resting one hand on the steering wheel.

He doesn't smile. I use the other hand to gesture "honk honk" on my imaginary horn.

Nothing. Confused, I tap the glass.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but this window is for customers in cars."

He's obviously joking, so I laugh and shake my head. "Oh, right! Heh heh! Yes. Good one. Now I really need to deposit this check."

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry. But I can't perform that transaction. This window is only for customers in cars."

The city noises fade to silence in the background. All I hear is the echo of his words: "Customers in cars...cars...cars..."

"Wait, you're serious? But your lobby is closed! The ATM is broken! Sir, I need to deposit this check. My account is going to go under. Can't you just take it? Please?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

Wow. I'm dumbfounded. I slowly take a couple steps, then stop. Then look back. My confusion turns to anger. Customers in cars? That doesn't make an ounce of sense! Here I am, a loyal customer for eight years, and because I'm not seated behind the wheel of a paycheck-eating, gas-drinking, life-endangering and wholly unnecessary motor vehicle, he won't serve me? What could possibly be the reason for this?

Is it safety? Will I get run over by the car behind me? Or is it validation? By having a car, am I somehow proving myself to be a worthy LaSalle Bank customer? Or is it just a policy? A policy that sounded good in the positive - "Our drive-up is for customers in cars" - and was now being interpreted by its corollary negative - "Our drive-up is NOT for customers NOT in cars."

Whatever the reason, I was pissed. I turned to face the traffic going by. And then, I had an idea.

It took me about seven seconds to hail a cab. I leaned in and told the driver to turn around, that we were going through the LaSalle Bank drive-thru. The cabbie was confused, so I quickly explained what had just gone down.

"THAT IS BULLS--T!" he roared in a thick accent. This dude got mad so fast, I barely had time to slam the door before he stepped on the gas. Perhaps he was someone who had experienced this kind of inept corporate bureaucracy himself. Either way, he was on my side. We squealed around and pulled up into the teller lane.

The cabbie rolled forward until my window was lined up with the bank's window. There was a split second of awkwardness, and I asked him to please roll down my window. Then I saw the teller's face, saw it change from confused to embarassed.

"Hello! Hi there!" I waved with a big obnoxious grin. "Here I am! In a car! I'm a customer, and I'm in a car! Just like you said! NOW PLEASE TAKE MY CHECK."

And you know what? He did. After a moment's hesitation, he opened the slot and, through the backseat window of a Chicago Checker cab, I handed him the envelope.

---

Customer service is a balancing act. For most companies who have retail locations, spread out across a region or country or planet, headquarters has to decide what to control, and what to let go. Depending on the company, one of two strategies tends to emerge.

Some companies empower their employees, viewing them as an asset. They decentralize decision-making and equip their workers with the tools to make good choices. These companies trust their store managers to display products the right way in each local market. They trust their salespeople to say the right thing, without enforcing a script. They provide employees with tips and frameworks, but leave enough room for interpretation that former drones turn into humans.

Other companies control their employees, viewing them as a liability. They standardize operations and issue strict guidelines. One small improvement can save millions of dollars, while one small mistake can cost even more. These companies provide machinery so advanced, it can cook a burger with zero opportunity for error. They send their drivers on step-by-step routes that minimize the use of left turns. They limit their workers' accountability, preferring to keep them on tighter leashes. They might make fewer mistakes, but they also make fewer great impressions. Plus, their workers are inevitably reduced. Humans fade away, and drones emerge.

Of course, different employees in different areas of a company will have more or less autonomy - depending on things like experience, customer interaction and the task at hand. I'm guessing that someone making fries at Mickey D's does not have permission to say, "I think I'll try adding cinnamon!" Whereas someone managing the same restaurant is empowered to grant the customer a refund, if the fries were sprinkled with nutmeg.

But there is an obvious contrast in the level of empowerment between comparable employees at different companies. You can just sense it. How much "the rules" matter becomes evident when you are redeeming just-expired gift cards, for example, or when you have to show two forms of ID and you only have one. Basically, the rules only matter when they are being questioned. And whether or not the employee is "allowed" to break the rules often makes the big difference in the do-or-die issue of customer loyalty.

Ultimately, I believe it comes down to a fundamental trust in people. And hey, I'm not saying every company has to trust all its employees. Not every stock boy is the sharpest tool in the hardware department. But employee empowerment is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you limit people, they will behave with a limited outlook. They'll blindly follow rules because they weren't trained to think otherwise. But if you trust people, and empower them with training, they will see the rules from the viewpoint of the customer. Empathetic employees - isn't that what everyone wants?

---

It was recently announced that LaSalle Bank is being sold to Bank of America. A new company will come in, change the rules and present its own philosophies on customer service. Maybe they'll have trusted, autonomous employees. Maybe they'll have some wonky policies of their own. I only hope that if one day, I walk up to a drive-thru, they'll take my deposit.

Public or private?

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Sat, 21 Apr 2007 18:05:00 +0000

Last night, I found someone else's shopping list.

I was making my way through the produce section when I looked in my cart, and there it was. Stuck to the in-store circular on two Post-It notes.

And you know what? It stopped me in my tracks. Maybe I'm just nosy, but I felt compelled to stand there, read it, and imagine an entire life story about the person who wrote it.

Now I suppose the list wasn't all that unique. Milk, OJ, bread, cheese. Bor-ing. But I couldn't help digging deeper. What tidbits could I glean about the author of this list? Who was this woman?

And I was sure it was a woman. Most shoppers are women, the handwriting was feminine, and the way it was stuck to the coupon pages – oh yes. This was a money-saving mom with a family at home. I know that part because she was buying "Lunch," which consisted of "3-4 Red Box." That sounded like juiceboxes to me. Though why only 3-4? There are five schooldays in a week. Maybe her kids buy lunch on Fridays?

Or maybe she wasn't a mom. Maybe she was getting frozen insta-lunches and they come in a red box. Because I noted that while lunch and dinner were present, breakfast was conspicuously absent. Does she skip breakfast? Maybe she's a busy career woman. A Starbucks drive-thru kind of gal. Maybe she wrote the list, and her assistant is doing the shopping!

Though she was definitely planning an event. Maybe a barbecue. That would explain the burgers, buns, lettuce and tomato. And two items were added in red, chips and salsa and two soups. She must have noted those down at the last minute. Does she keep a red pen in her car? Is she a schoolteacher? Why was she having a barbecue when it's 40 degrees outside anyway? What will she cook with the chicken stock? WHAT'S INSIDE THE RED BOX?

All this went through my head in a matter of seconds. It was surprisingly intimate. I felt a little guilty, like I had violated this person’s privacy. Like I'd peered in her closet or dug through her fridge.

But it was also intriguing. Knowing the personal details of someone else's life is strangely fascinating. And a shopping list contains lots of these little clues. Because what we buy is a direct reflection of who we are. Are we brand-conscious? Price-conscious? Health-conscious? Impulsive? Consistent? Lactose-intolerant? I could speculate for hours about this woman's job, family, appearance, cooking abilities, social life, budget and values.

But here's the question of the hour. Do you think she would mind?

---

Privacy is simultaneously becoming more and less important these days. Because as a society, our trust in each other is getting paradoxically larger and smaller.

On the one hand, some types of information are becoming more public. Our likes and dislikes, our jobs and hobbies, even our love lives and biggest secrets are being put on display. We all want to know more about each other; there's something in human nature that compels us to seek this out. And our desire is being met with increasingly “real” versions of real life - from the Jennicam to Justin Kan's life on camera. There’s a popular Flickr group called What's In Your Bag, where people spill, sort and photograph the items in their purses. You might be asking yourself, who cares what's in my bag? But trust me. People do.

On the other hand, some types of information are becoming more private. Our social security numbers, sure. But also our email addresses, our receipts and our mail. Privacy is now a big deal on a national scale. Fears about identity theft and government security and "the dangers of the internet" run rampant, especially with older generations. We all have 37 different passwords. The shredder market is booming.

Now the store is a great arena to watch this all play out. The information at stake is simply, "what we buy." Should what we buy be public or private?

Well, the items in our cart are on full display. We don't own them, and everyone can see them. They are public. Yet when we get to the checkout, we don't like other people staring at them. They are put in bags. Now they are private. But once we unpack, some of us write the items up on our shopping blogs. And others leave lists in their carts. So in one sense, maybe we don't mind our purchases being public.

But if the main trend is transparency, its countertrend is an increased concern for privacy. Because here's what many people don't know. Stores collect personal data on what we buy. If you've ever shopped with a loyalty card, like the Tesco Clubcard or the CVS Extra Care card, you have shared your purchase information with the store. The same personal tidbits that I saw on the list, but with greater accuracy, scale and detail. (They know, for instance, what's in the red box). Stores record our purchase behavior, and pass it onto companies like dunnhumby, who use it to conduct "relevance marketing." In other words, our unknowing card swipes are helping them make all sorts of decisions about products, prices and in-store advertising. They can slice and dice their customer base to their pie chart's delight. It's powerful data.

But is this an invasion of privacy? Some people say it is. These folks opt not to use loyalty cards, and their purchases remain anonymous. But guess what - they lose out on the savings that cardholders enjoy. And I don't think that's fair.

So just like the choice at the end, "Paper or plastic," I believe we should be given a choice up front: "Public or private?" And stores should work to give both kinds of shoppers an experience that meets their needs.

Shoppers who "go public" can elect to share what they buy with, well, everyone. Their shopping lists are on full display, broadcast throughout the store with their personal profiles. They sign up for free samples of products they enjoy, see where they rank in shopping contests, create universal wish lists, and see what they've bought in the past. They give feedback on products, get recruited for market research, and discuss favorites with fellow customers. They essentially live lives of shopping transparency. These are all natural desires, and the stores should help fulfill them. But the one thing "public" shoppers shouldn't get is a price break.

Likewise, shoppers who "go private" can elect not to share what they buy with, well, anyone. They push around carts with opaque covers, so that nobody can see their items. Their receipts are blank except for the price. They are happy to get what they need, while remaining respectfully anonymous. And they aren't docked financially for feeling this way.

Because while I don't think that money is the best way to incentivize people to share, it's the tactic du jour for getting shoppers to give their demographic information up front, and their purchase information over time. Rather, shoppers who want to go public should be given channels to share, and shoppers who want to stay private should be equally accommodated. The store would save money on all those coupons, too.

As the privacy wars are waged on nearly every front, and a new generation grows up with high expectations for transparency, the question of To Share or Not To Share may well perplex leaders in every industry. I wonder what retail will do. Because right now, we are seeing Privacy 1.0. A couple pennies saved by a bunch of naive consumers. Rather, I envision a space where we choose all sorts of privacy preferences, and customize our sharing options in every store.

---

So, do you think the anonymous shopper would have minded that I was poring over her list? She left it in a public place, after all, and I suppose my snooping was harmless enough. Would she care if I posted it on my blog? What if I started sending her coupons for chicken stock? Would she mind if I lumped her into a "shopper demographic" and made money off my knowledge of her choices?

This is where it gets tricky. It's a soft line between what's okay to share and what's not. But it's a hard line between using someone's info for entertainment, and using that info for profit. So my guess is, no, she wouldn't have minded that. But she might mind this. I'm sorry, anonymous shopper. Your story just had to be told. Maybe next time, you won't leave your list in the cart.

Curious Shopper for president!

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 16 Apr 2007 15:21:00 +0000

This site was nominated for a Best Shopping Blog award. Help me scratch and claw my way to the top! Cast your vote here.

Repetition, repetition, repetition

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 00:05:00 +0000

Q: How many sweaters does it take to sell one sweater?

A: Apparently, more and more.

Confused? Read on.

---

I recently visited New York City and, like a good curious shopper, spent some time in stores. It's all for you, people.

So there's this new store called Uniqlo. It opened its US flagship in Soho last fall. Uniqlo has been hailed as "the Gap of Japan" for selling basic, mainstream, simple - all right, boring - clothing. But that's okay; boring clothing at reasonable prices has sold well in Japan.

However, Uniqlo has been challenged to translate its retail offering into other cultures. A first attempt at the UK market failed when big, splashy store openings were met with confusion. Now, Uniqlo is focused on bridging the culture gap, by understanding the mind of the fickle US consumer, while also maintaining a subtly Japanese aesthetic. They've set some lofty goals with that one.

When I visited the store, I had a slightly different observation. For me it was less of an American-Japanese gap they needed to bridge, and more of an Old Japan-New Japan gap that needed balancing. I saw spare Japanese discipline coupled with hip Japanese pop culture. The interplay between modern and traditional was fascinating, if not entirely cohesive. Most interestingly, the traditional was actually more in tune with the trends of American retail.

The store is 80% minimalist. The clothes are unbranded and consist mainly of plain, solid colors. Everything is neatly organized and placed on a giant three-dimensional grid. The whole environment is sparse and geometric. It feels vaguely Asian. It feels kinda rigid. It doesn't feel like clothing, and it doesn't exactly inspire me to grab five tops and jump into a dressing room. And yet, there's something intriguing about it.

But the other 20% of the store is sensational. Flashy mannequins are decked out in Japanese street fashion, spinning in a disco-hipster aquarium. Flat-panel televisions, mounted flush with mirrored walls, create an eerie, futuristic vibe. It suggests fast-paced youth culture in Tokyo, like the club scene in Babel or the karaoke in Lost in Translation. It feels uber hip. It also feels kinda lonely. It reminds me of the isolation of technology.

Now ultimately, I believe that Americans are hungry for a dose of non-American culture. And saying "I got this at Uniqlo" will give New Yorkers their weekly dose of cool. So the flagship should do very well, and it has so far. But while J-Pop is a fad here in the States, the design elements of traditional Japan are a trend. Know the difference? Fads come and go. Trends are indicative of longer-term changes afoot.

And one of the biggest retail trends I see today is simply, repetition. Why? We are busy, and our attention spans are short. Show us something once, and we might sense it with peripheral vision. Show us something twice, and we recognize it from before. Something triggers our brain to remember it. Show it to us again, and we might actually process it. Show it to us so many times, that it becomes part of something bigger? Now we really get it.

Here's an example. You know how people complain about the grocery store having 40 kinds of ketchup? It probably doesn't have 40 kinds. It might have 15 kinds, but 40 facings. This is because stores give top sellers multiple spots on the shelf. Let's face it, a ketchup bottle is only so big. It can't grab your attention on its own. But an army of ketchup bottles? You are guaranteed to see at least one of them.

Another example. I've seen ads plastered onto el cars in Chicago, and on bus stops in New York. The single ad may be a well-designed, fully complete, standalone poster. But there are three of them in a row. I've learned to ignore most commuter advertising, but triple-vision ads? It's odd and it grabs your attention.

You may be saying to yourself, "But repetition is so obvious. It's the oldest trick in the book." That may be true, but it wasn't always necessary to repeat. Think about it: in the past, stores might have only needed one can of soup to sell, well, one can of soup. Now, apparently, they need two. Repetition has gone from a bonus to a requirement.

And what Uniqlo has done is take repetition to the next level. The store uses the product to create an enormous wall of color, much bigger and more impactful than any single sweater. When you stand across the room, you sense the pattern and the scale. When you get closer, you recognize the individual items. When you unfold one of the 6 sweaters that are actually within your reach, you feel like you're taking a piece of the Great Wall of China. It's special, because it's part of a much bigger entity.

If retail is a game of attention, this billboard effect is the newest way to win. And so for me, it all came together. Uniqlo may not be in vogue forever, because nobody knows how long Japanese culture will be cool to Americans. But the principles behind Uniqlo's retail exhibition are right on trend. They are actually more in sync with the most basic form of retail out there - the supermarket. Uniqlo might not feel like other clothing stores, but it sure does feel efficient. Packed and organized like the best cereal aisle.

---

The answer, by the way? Well, it looks like there are about 12 stacks of 6 sweaters above each eye-level section. So, by my calculations, 72.

Stand by your fish

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 20:49:00 +0000

One recent evening, I happened to wander into a Petco. It was very different than the pet stores of my childhood. Instead of wide-eyed children gazing at puppies and bunnies, I saw two things. Supplies and fish. Apparently, Petco has scaled back.

Or maybe it's always been this way. I can't imagine that a national chain like Petco wouldn't be able to logistically handle dogs and cats, but perhaps those are better left to independent breeders and animal shelters. Or maybe puppies are just low-margin merchandise. (Sorta breaks your heart to think of it that way, huh?)

But you know, the longer a puppy "sits on the shelf," so to speak, the more expensive he becomes to maintain. Employees have to feed him, walk him and love him, and even at minimum wage, all that loving can get expensive.

But a fish has got to have better shelf life. And I'd imagine the markups are decent. So perhaps supplies and fish were more of a business decision than anything else. After all, Petco is a business too. Even though it's peddling love and appealing to shoppers' emotions, it's still a large corporation with shareholders (or recently, private investors) to please.

Anyway, I am not in the market for a pet of any species, but I had some time to kill. So I decided to browse the fish aisle. There I was, gazing into tanks and making pucker faces, when I noticed a small sign.

"15-DAY GUARANTEE ON FRESHWATER FISH. In a properly established system, we guarantee Freshwater Fish for 15 days from the date of purchase with a receipt, plus the fish and a water sample in separate containers."

This was unlike any return policy I have ever seen. I'm going to take it one phrase at a time.

First, Petco is saying their fish will live for 15 days. I don't know if you've ever had a pet goldfish, but in my experience, lifespan varies widely. We'd come home with four new fish in a bag. One would be dead that night, two more would go in a month, and the last one would live for five years. So how they heck are they providing this sort of guarantee? Do they inject their fish with 15-day miracle vitamins? I was skeptical.

But then, they specify a "properly established system." Upon inquiry, it turns out that a proper system takes all sorts of factors into account, such as water temperature, filters and lighting. The Petco employee had a whole bunch of take-home literature on how to properly establish your system. It was actually quite useful, and I'd imagine that if I were buying my first fish, I would read up. So maybe this guarantee has an educational benefit. But I still wasn't totally convinced. Would anyone else make the effort to learn?

Finally, you not only have to bring a receipt, you have to bring the fish. THE FISH. They are not kidding around! Apparently dead fish transportation receptacles have recently included Tupperware containers and pillboxes. Oh, and a water sample. You have to save some of your dead fish's water for inspection. Doesn't this seem like a lot of work for one lousy free fish?

Apparently, it's not. People are indeed taking advantage of this fish guarantee. And I actually think it's quite clever. Petco knows that fish are notoriously short-lived, and I have to imagine it was getting multiple complaints a day, from angry shoppers, about dying goldfish. So the folks at corporate must have realized that the best way to take control of the situation was to give some responsibility back to their customers. Petco can't be liable for every dead-pet heartbreak in town, but it can carve out an area where its responsibility ends, and the customer's begins.

So they wrote this return policy in no uncertain terms. I imagine it's quite effective.

First, there's the education opportunity. The "properly established system" part means that if you didn't read our guidelines, it's your own fault. Imagine what takes place when a customer brings back Fishy. The employee gives him a little fish physical - takes his temperature, looks at his color and size. Then she tests the water's chlorine levels and looks for foreign particles. If something is up, the employee can diagnose it, teach the person what went wrong, and instruct them on what to do differently next time. It's like saying "We told you so" in the nicest of ways. Plus, education is rewarded; if you did everything we told you, then it wasn't your fault and you will get a new fish.

Second, there's the emotional response. I'm sure this is disproportionate for fish. I mean, if your toaster breaks, that is irritating. But when your child's new friend kicks the bucket, that is a sad day. A very sad day. That child is in the darkest hour of his little life. So just when Dad is most pissed, and Joey is most distraught, in swoops Petco to save the day. Joey learns a valuable lesson in the transience of life and death, and Dad learns to read the fine print. I'd imagine this return policy wins major points with parents.

And third, there is the business impact. Which is basically, zero. How much do you think a fish costs Petco? Ten cents? Small investment for what must be big rewards. They'd probably have to give away a free fish, every 15 days for a year before they lost money. And I'm sure someone did the math. Maybe they found that 10% of their stock typically die in less than 15 days, while the other 90% live longer. Ten percent of inventory is pretty manageable. Many retailers make similar estimates regarding their own "shrinkage." I'm sure the fish warranty makes only the tiniest of dents in the bottom line.

Education allows for loyal, informed customers. Replacement allows for happy children. And education + loyalty - small cost = big value. Good job, guys.

PS: I thought perhaps Petco's policy might give it a leg up on PetSmart, its arch nemesis. A quick call told me that PetSmart only offers a 14-day fish guarantee. Ha, ha. How's that for a competitive advantage?

It's my life; it's her job

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 03:05:00 +0000

So I'm shopping for groceries, one Monday night at Jewel, when a woman's voice stops me in my tracks. "Would you like to try some fresh hot pizza?" I don't have to think; of course I want to try some fresh hot pizza. As I stood there chewing my tasty sample, I slowly realized that it was unlike other frozen pizzas. So surprisingly delicious, so crisp yet doughy, so sweet yet cheesy, that I started to feel a strange love for this woman.

The pizza was from Home Run Inn, a local Chicago company. And it was good. Really good. But why did I transfer my product-love into person-love? Did this woman own Home Run Inn? Of course not. Did she even work for them? No, she worked for Jewel. Perhaps she made this pizza? Heated it up in her own oven? Rolled the dough with her own two hands? No, she was simply doing her job. She had no connection with the product, none whatsoever, and yet I felt like it was she alone who had brought me one step closer to heaven.

---

This is my theory, and it may sound strange, but here you go. I care more about employees than they care about me, because when we interact in a store, it's my life, but it's their job.

When we talk with employees in a store, we care about them. At least a little. Because whatever is happening in a store is happening "in our life." Shopping is a chore, a leisure activity, a form of entertainment or a contribution to the family, but it's an event that takes place during our everyday lives.

But for store employees, interactions with shoppers are a dime a dozen. Each person asking them a question is just one more distraction, one less item stocked, one less customer checked out. People may blip the radar if they are especially annoying, funny or strange, but for the most part, shoppers come and go and the radar just stays flat.

Yet for better or worse, we endow store employees with an unrequited amount of importance. We want to give them credit when their products are great. More often, we don't want to hurt their feelings when their products are bad. Worst of all, we feel embarassed when they see us buying something awkward. But do these people really care? Of course not. This is just their job.

Example 1: The pizza lady. I loved her product, and so I actually wanted her to see me buying it. I discussed my purchase with her. I picked up the pizza very blatantly, and made sure she saw me putting it in my cart. I wanted her to know my true feelings for "her" pizza. But was she proud? Pleased that her salesmanship helped Home Run Inn? Probably not. I mean, she's just doing her job.

Example 2: The wine lady. She handed me a friendly sample of some sparkling wine. I hated it. It wasn't sweet like she said it would be. It was dry and it burned in my throat. But could I hand the tiny cup back to her, half-drunk and choking? Of course not. I thought this would hurt her feelings. So I carried it three aisles away and tucked it behind some peanut butter. Would she have cared? Probably not in the slightest. It wasn't personal.

Example 3: Something we can all relate to. The cashier, at any store where embarassing-yet-necessary products are sold. I'm talking about family planning products, feminine hygiene products, medicine for strange and unattractive conditions. It's bad enough that we have to ask someone to get them out of the locked case for us. Then, standing in line, we pray that the checkout lady doesn't roll her eyes, snicker, or make some awkward comment. But does she ever? Does she really care about the size of condoms we are buying? Or the fact that our new tongue scraper is recommended for bad breath? Of course not. She's just trying to get through her shift.

Now I'm not saying store employees aren't important. They are people going about their jobs, and tough jobs, I might add. Some might care a lot what their customers think, or giggle once we're out the door. But as shoppers going about our lives, we like to think that we are unique to them - that our tasting and purchasing experiences are original and that we must affect them oh so much. On the contrary, the people who work at the grocery store have probably seen it all. They've had shoppers who loved their samples, and shoppers who hated them. They've encountered nice people, rude people, annoying people and crazy people. They've seen nine customers this week buying hemorrhoid cream.

So maybe I think my in-store interactions are important because they are a chapter in my day, a break from the norm, a story to tell friends later. Perhaps I only talk to one employee, so that person becomes memorable to me. But for the employee, it would take a lot to truly rock her boat. She sees hundreds of me an hour. So the same interaction that has so much importance to me, has almost none to her. Why? It's my life; it's her job.

Come for the deals, stay for the treasure

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Mon, 08 Jan 2007 18:49:00 +0000

Last week I went to Costco, to buy a chocolate fountain. Possibly the most obscure, hilarious item I've ever purchased. It's for an upcoming party, and once I decided to get one, I absolutely had to find one. There was no turning back.

There are no local chocolate fountain stores, per se, and rental can run you $300, so when I realized I might find it at Costco, my heart leapt at the possibility. Sure enough, the Costco website showed two or three different ones, ranging from $40 to $200. Amazing, I thought, and only at Costco.

---

One year ago, I wrote about Costco in an admittedly whiny way. I said that the store's giant products require giant houses, and that therefore, Costco is not for me. I still find most of the industrial-size items impractical, but nonetheless, I'll confess that trips to Costco have crept into my life with greater and greater frequency.

However, over the year of my membership, the motivation has changed. I used to crave Costco's low prices per unit - its great deals on commodities. But when that didn't pan out logistically, I started to discover the other side of the clever retailer. Now, I shop at Costco for big-ticket, hard-to-find and extremely special things. Why? Because I've been trained to seek them out.

The treasure hunt mentality is one of Costco's founding principles. Diamonds and iPods and plasma TVs are right in there with the ketchup and soap. My favorite-ever Costco purchase was a giant trampoline my family bought when I was 16. More recently, it's been king crab legs, an all-in-one printer and, of course, the chocolate fountain.

What exactly is Costco doing to earn my treasure-hunting dollars? For starters, while a Wal*Mart Supercenter might carry 100,000 items, each Costco only has about 4,000. Yet every one of those items is carefully considered. There aren't 60 kinds of toothpaste; there are two, and both are great. But the great products rotate in and out all the time. Surprises are everywhere. Samples encourage trial. The lenient return policy lessens the risk. Prices drop one day; deals disappear the next. It's a roller coaster of thrills and letdowns.

In 1983, when Costco first appeared on the scene, these seemingly inconsistent practices were certainly not the norm. I have to imagine consumers were initially confused. But over time, Costco has trained its shoppers. Trained them so well that they literally behave differently inside its warehouses than in any other store. Sane, rational people turn into pirates.

Never has this been more evident than in my chocolate fountain shopping trip. When I called the store to check availability, they said it was $37.99, and that they had "about 16 left." I immediately understood that once those 16 were gone, they weren't coming back. I planned to visit the very next day.

Then, when I marched down the appliances aisle and arrived at my coveted fountain, surprise! It was only $19.99! Half price on an already-great deal! I felt like I was beating the system in a big way. Take that, $300 fondue rentals! I grabbed one, found two 5-pound bags of chocolate, and made my way to the front.

But the best part was the checkout. As the cashier was ringing me up, she says, "This is twenty bucks? Are there any more left? Because this would be great for my daughter's wedding." I laughed and told her there were. Then the guy in line behind me starts asking questions. "How much was that? Twenty dollars? What kind of chocolate goes in it? And twenty dollars? Hold on, ma'am, I'm just gonna run back." She goes, "Hey, can you get one for me too?"

---

Costco shoppers - and employees - are behaving exactly as Costco wants them to. Over many shopping trips and many years, they have learned to expect the unexpected. To recognize a great deal when they see one. To look at what other people have in their carts. To buy things they don't need, simply because they are scarce. To shop the whole store, because a great find could be just around the corner. To visit often, because you never know what you're missing. And to buy it now, because it might not be here tomorrow.

Costco's unique blend of merchandise speaks to both our practical and impractical sides. But the practicality of the bulk of the store affords a little madness. I can imagine typical in-store conversations: "But honey, we saved 100 bucks on tires. We can afford this deep fryer!" "Sweetheart, we saved 60 cents a pound on steaks. Can we please get this memory foam mattress?" Or me: "This item is too cheap, obscure and amazing not to buy!"

Costco, you won me back. I came for the deals, but I stayed for the treasure.

Lessons from the other side

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 18:10:00 +0000

Last weekend, my boyfriend and I exhibited t-shirts at the Renegade Craft Fair. Renegade is your typical urban retail gathering. It's a large group of funky, clever crafters who range from very amateur to quite professional. We are not quitting our day jobs any time soon, but we sold shirts and made connections and boosted our brand awareness. It was a good two days.

For me, Renegade was especially interesting because as a shopper, I often wonder, "My god, what is this store thinking?" Now, in an unexpected turn of events, I had become the store. So here's what I was thinking.

Lesson 1: Don't stare at shoppers. Don't even look at them. Forget what you know about manners. Don't smile at anyone. It only freaks them out. Don't even make eye contact. At all. Resist the urge to watch the endless parade of fascinating people walking by your booth.

I noticed that when I would look at someone, the minute they saw me looking, they'd start backing away. Politeness is generally a good thing, but as a shopper, intense scrutiny (or even a casual glance) can be a huge buzzkill. I know that when I enter a boutique and I'm the only shopper, and the woman at the counter greets me in a warm and cheery way, I want to get the hell outta there. This effect is magnified in a small, intimate ten-by-six space. So I quickly learned to stop looking, stop smiling and stop freaking people out.

Lesson 2: Look busy. If you are not busy, become busy. Let your "work" consume you. Don't even look up when people approach, until you've given them at least ten seconds to become comfortable in your space. If you are busy, my theory goes, you don't need them. If they want your attention, they're going to have to work for it. It's like a new relationship. You've gotta play hard to get.

I noticed that when I would take up a meaningless task, like refolding all the shirts or reorganizing them into size order, more shoppers would walk up and start browsing. They'd feel more comfortable with that initial approach because they were entering a neutral zone. I wasn't watching over my territory, I wasn't handing them a business card or asking them what size they needed. I wasn't putting on any pressure, and they responded well to my aloofness. Counterintuitive, perhaps. But it worked.

Lesson 3: Fill the space with people. Nothing draws a crowd like a crowd. If your booth has no shoppers, and the booths around you do, people will quickly deduce that your booth has nothing going on. Especially in a transparent environment like a craft fair, with no storefronts or walls to disguise your relative crowdedness, you simply must have people around.

And friends will do just fine. During times when friends were visiting, they would stand right in front of our booth. Were they blocking the merchandise from public view? Sure they were. Was that okay? You bet. Even you yourself are better standing in front of your booth, than sitting behind it. There were times when my boyfriend would sit in the chair, and I would stand in front, just talking to him! And people would come.

The busiest times, of course, would begin when one person decided to make a purchase. As she made her way down the decision tree (size, color, graphics) other shoppers would gather. And if that first purchaser looked like a cool chick, you better believe that helped sales too.

---

Renegade taught me a lot about the subconscious elements of store choice. We notice scrutiny. We notice employee neediness. We notice other shoppers in a big way. So forget everything your mother taught you about manners. The best way to sell product is to ignore shoppers, look cool, and hang out with your friends.

We hate to wait

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Sat, 02 Dec 2006 00:28:00 +0000

Of all the activities that we humans encounter during our lives, which activity do we like the least? Well, there's paying taxes, and there's getting punched, and there's public speaking...but I think there's something worse.

We hate to wait. Oh, how we hate to wait. Just hurry it up! Come on, people! Why is everyone in front of me so slow? The fact is, our time is increasingly precious to us. Waiting is seen more as a waste of time than a necessary evil, and as peoples' expectations for convenience continue to rise, any act of waiting, big or small, becomes despicable.

And waiting causes disproportionate amounts of stress in our lives. Why is it disproportionate? Because, well, the literal act of waiting is so easy. All you do is stand there! It's not difficult, and it's not embarassing, and it's not painful. But my god, does it get our blood boiling.

The strangest thing about waiting is that it tends to distort reality. You may have been standing there for three minutes and feel certain that ten have gone by. If time flies when you're having fun, time sure drags when you're waiting. So retailers talk about "perceived wait time" rather than actual wait time, because frankly, the former is much more important.

You would think we might adapt, find ways mitigate our stress. Perhaps we could just stand patiently while the cashier tries to do a price check and nobody in pharmacy is answering the phone. Or we could sit calmly while other patrons come and go, the time of our actual appointment creeping farther into the past. We could pass the time with a cellphone call, but our fellows-in-waiting wouldn't like it. We could be productive, we could be entertained, we could be learning, we could be socializing. We could be shopping! But usually, we're just fuming. Can anyone take us out of our misery?

---

A few companies are trying. Their strategies are all interesting, if not entirely successful. I'd like to highlight three.

exhale is a posh spa in a prosperous neighborhood. Situated in Chicago's Gold Coast, it caters to clientele who just might think their time is more precious than the time of others. People who tote small dogs and get massages twice a week. People who surely don't have time to wait.

But exhale's waiting area quickly changes that mindset. I was taken to a small, dimly lit space with four kinds of tea, a low-hanging chandelier and a long, padded bench seat. A wood-framed sign asked if I wanted a heated neck pillow. You bet I wanted a heated neck pillow. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and almost fell asleep.

This waiting room was so tranquil, and such a change of pace from the outside world, I actually wanted to wait. I could have sat there for hours. In five minutes I think I reached a partially meditative state. While I know this type of experience doesn't work for every business, some of the principles are good. Find ways to slow the customer down, add multiple sensory elements, remove any reminders of time, and create a diversion so pleasant that the waiting becomes a solution unto itself, rather than the problem.

The second example is less about creating the positive, and more about mitigating the negative. But I find it equally illustrative. My dermatologist is named Dr. Michael Greenberg. His waiting room is super generic - chairs in a square, family magazines and a fish tank. But as I signed in for my appointment, I noticed a little pamphlet. It was called "Why Am I Waiting?"

Dr. Greenberg is a writer when he's not a doctor, and he has kindly put together a thorough and heartfelt answer to this question. Written in the first person, it contains passages like these:

If I knew exactly what was going to happen at each patient visit, I could book an exact time slot like dentists do. But many appointments are to find out what a patient's problem is. Once I have a diagnosis, treatment time varies.

What, for example, should I do with an elderly patient who has a skin cancer that needs removal, whose only transportation is a relative who had to take time off work? Should I ask them to return to do the removal? Or should I do the procedure and risk falling behind schedule? How would you want your relative treated?

Dr. Greenberg cites emergencies, no-shows, interruptions, overbooking, and treating the patient, not just their disease, as reasons why I am waiting. After reading this pamphlet - a nice way to pass the time, I might add - I felt a newfound appreciation for his dedication, his honesty, his sense of fairness. I even felt a new solidarity with my fellow patients, as if by my own act of waiting, I was helping someone less fortunate get better care. Again, not all businesses have satisfying reasons "why I am waiting," but most could benefit from a degree of explanation. So try simply telling the customer why, and they might just become empathetic. If anything, they'll realize that your problems are worse than theirs.

The final example is equal parts innovative and evil, and I relate it here as a case of good waiting gone bad. My boyfriend recently visited CarMax. We were selling our Golf, and while friends warned us against the place, we just wanted a baseline quote. The quote was indeed terrible, but the worst part for George was the waiting. He described it like this: "I sat down with a salesman, we discussed the Golf, and then someone went to inspect it. I got up to find the waiting room, but realized that there was none! There was nothing to do but sit back down at the salesman's cubicle. For half an hour, I was subjected to his progressively persistent attempts to sell me a used car. Why their cars were a great deal, some cars I might want to consider, the fabulous CarMax warranty, and on and on."

This is nuts. I find it ridiculous to quarantine the customer, giving them no other option but to listen to your employee try to close a deal. George said he was obviously not interested, yet he was subjected to the same treatment as a willing buyer.

While I understand that CarMax is in the business of selling cars, their strategy of selling cars to anyone, even people who clearly aren't buying, is absurd. But perhaps classifying their customers would help. Letting the waiting experience be dictated by their interest. CarMax has people buying cars, and people selling cars. They could take the buyers to one side of the room, where Joe Hardsell can get right to the point. They could take the sellers to the other side of the room, where Jim Softsell can add value in other ways.

Mr. Softsell could chat openly with my boyfriend about the cars he was considering. He could give him some personal car-buying advice. He could offer him car magazines. He could let him sit in some newer models. He could take him out for a test drive! Or he could help him pass the time by turning on the TV, letting him play video games, or simply giving him the privacy to make a phone call.

CarMax has the resources to give both kinds of people a positive waiting experience. They already have the customer in a given space for a good chunk of time, and they have already allocated a full-time staffer to babysitting him. They need to find ways to make that experience positive, no matter who's doing the waiting. And in general, I wonder if it makes sense for businesses to have multiple levels of waiting. We've already got the self-checkout, the 10 items or less, and the full-cart lines. Some hospitals have different types of waiting rooms. Think about it: are you only making one type of customer wait? Or are there two or more types, with very different needs?

Whether you need to boost a positive waiting experience, lessen a negative one, or create multiple levels, please remember that waiting is an important and often overlooked part of the retail experience. The bar is currently set so low that any attempts to improve should be disproportionately appreciated.

Show me the bank

noreply@blogger.com (sara) — Wed, 29 Nov 2006 06:05:00 +0000

I recently took a major step toward responsible adulthood. I opened a small business checking account. The reason? My boyfriend and I officially registered our side business, Hubwear, and it was time to get serious. No more "we'll figure out the tax thing later" or "do we have to tell someone about this?" We have an Employer Identification Number, we put our legal notice in the paper, we even went to H&R Block. And now, with Washington Mutual at our side, we are the proud cosigners of a Free Business Checking account.

Hell yeah.

Now I had more than one reason for choosing WaMu. Of course, we reviewed comparable services from banks in the area. But most had fees somewhere in the fine print, and we are far too savvy to fall for that old gag. Washington Mutual not only had a fee-free option, it was near my office and seemed to be on the rise in Chicagoland. Finally, I'd heard about its "interesting branch designs" and, quite frankly, wanted a closer look.

So I walked into my local branch, and immediately felt displaced. What was this, and where was the bank? I had arrived in a big, open room, where five or six standing-height kiosks were scattered around. There were round counters, round floor patterns and round ceiling fixtures, like everything was swirling around the eye of a hurricane. There were employees standing around the kiosks. There were customers standing around the employees. It looked like a wacky cyclone-themed bar at happy hour.

But it's not quite that crazy - just a little disorienting. You walk in and start scanning the room, when some employee in the back waves her arm and calls, "I can help you over here!" There's no clear path, so you weave through a bunch of kiosks to get to hers. This is fine, I suppose, but I found it strange to not immediately know what to do inside a bank.

This is because most banks have overly entrenched, formulaic protocols for how to act (calm), where to stand (in line), how to talk (quietly) and what to do (nothing. Just make your transaction and leave). Deviations from the protocol are rare. Retail banks reign supreme in the "Because That's How We've Always Done It" department, and surely, I have to presume, they've done it that way for a reason.

And to me, that reason is credibility. You need to trust the place that holds your money. So even though most banks are stodgy, formal and boring, I would rather a stodgy, formal bore hold my money than, well, anyone. Hence the tellers in conservative costume, the organized row of windows, the respectable wood and carpet, and the protocols. "If they have a strict process for making change for a dollar, surely they are strict with my savings."

But the process at Washington Mutual was unlike other banks - it was totally lacking in protocols. Simply put, a protocol is like an implicit agreement between store and customer. We'll do things a certain way, and in return, you'll do things a certain way. But when the store breaks from established protocols, I am left hanging. I have no metaphor, no clues for how to act. At best, I question myself. At worst, I question the store.

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The lack of protocol was evident at several points in my visit. For example, I expect bankers to be pinnacles of professionalism. They sit properly on their side of the wall, and all I see is a business-suited torso. But as the khaki-clad employee chatted with me at her kiosk, she was visible from head to toe. I could see her comfortable sneakers and sense her casual body language. Should I be breezy with her? Should I make small talk? Wait a minute, was this woman a banker, a teller, or just a minimum-wage employee? Was she knowledgeable about personal finance? Did she even go to college?

I also expect banks to retain some element of secrecy. I want to know that everything is secure, password-protected and locked up tight. But when I sat with the teller at her workstation, her computer screen faced me. It was clearly placed in my line of vision to promote total transparency. But I actually wanted some opacity. Doesn't she keep security codes in there or something? Perhaps some top-secret banking software that I shouldn't see? I felt intrusive and awkward watching her type. (I also wanted some walls - if I could see my new account, couldn't the rest of the room?)

Furthermore, I expect banks to have a "back room," a storage chamber where they keep all the money. While I realize this notion may be outdated, and most money is now digital, I still expect a vault, safety deposit boxes, or at least a private space where rich old ladies can count their millions. But no. I looked all around the room, and there was no back area or special hallway. Upon inquiry, it turns out that money is actually stored inside each of the kiosks. Somehow, that doesn't seem like enough space. "Does this bank just not have that much money?" I thought to myself. That can't be a good customer perception.

The best example of a lack of protocol happened at the very end. I was back at an employee's kiosk, doing something boring like signing forms. Then I finished. Then I stood there, waiting. She was working on her computer. Finally she looked up and said, "Oh, you're done! You're all done. You can go." This moment was utterly bizarre. I was never given the signal that our time here was through. And I kid you not, I had two visits with two different employees, and this exact exchange happened both times.

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Now just because WaMu defied my expectations, doesn't mean it's bad business. I'm a fan of shifting the paradigm, especially in antiquated industries, and if WaMu wants to be more like a retailer, and less like a bank, that's cool. The patented design, called Occasio, is supposed to create a comfortable, welcoming environment - a place "where [people] want to go, rather than have to go." Who can argue with that?

But I found the place to be so unlike a bank, that I began to question its credibility as a financial institution. And that is the line they most certainly do not want to cross.

I'd recommend adding back in some of the traditional banking cues. Just a few. Like building a tiny wall around employees, so to speak, so they are both important and confidential. Give their desks some privacy and their outfits some authority. Give them more prominent titles. Store the money in some perimeter fixture or machine. Give it a little more space. And finish the transaction with a gesture. Something that signifies the end and brings closure. Hand me a lollipop, for goodness sake!

I know WaMu is simply listening to its customers, staying in touch with the trends of accessibility and demystification. I just want them to remember that as long as they offer checking accounts, they are still a bank. I'm simply asking them to show me the bank.