As a Customer Service, May We <i> Please </i> Help You Help Us?
S alesclerk--n. a person employed to sell goods in a store. Well, thanks for clearing that up, Mr. Webster, because we were beginning to wonder. Just the other day it took us five minutes to find a clerk in a major department store. And after we did, the clerk’s phone rang and we were put on hold another five minutes. When the clerk finally hung up we got a look that said: “You again?” We hauled.
Oh, there are some good salesclerks--some great salesclerks--and we’re going to chat about them . Meanwhile, there are a few things we need to get off our chests . . .
SHE: One thing that drives me nuts is when salespeople look down their noses, give people the old I’ve-got-something-you-want-so-that-makes-me-superior routine.
Case in point: A few years ago, one of the wealthiest women in Orange County waltzed into a now-defunct Newport Beach boutique looking for a gala gown. She wears little makeup and dresses in a laid-back way that says, “I’ve been cutting back my rose garden.”
Well. The salesgirl sized her up and pronounced: “I don’t think you can afford anything here.” Later, she told me: “I wanted to tell her I could buy and sell her 10 times over but I didn’t. I just left.” Can you imagine?
HE: I think you can trace the beginning of that foolishness back to the time when it first became impossible to get a gas station attendant to wash your windshield. We’ve gone from “The customer is always right” to “The customer is in the way.” This ugly little flaw seems to appear every time the customer confesses any sort of ignorance.
I bought a blazer once and asked if the alterations could be done in three days. The minimum amount of time it took for that particular shop was a week. It was their policy, but I didn’t know that. The guy who had just sold me the coat gave me this supercilious little sniff and a roll of the eyes. Translation: “Just how big an idiot are you?” Then he explained the policy as if he were talking to a child.
You never think of good comebacks at the time, but on my way home I pieced together a beauty: “Gee, then surely you’re unaware of my personal policy that compels me to send a nasty letter to the IRS in the name of every self-important gravel-brained salesclerk I see.”
SHE: I was in a rather pricey boutique at South Coast Plaza recently, and fell in love with a black knit jacket with a rose embroidered on the back. Had to have it.
I asked the salesperson the price. She gave me a number that was high but in the realm of the possible. I asked her to hold it for a few days. (I wanted time to talk myself out of it.)
Three days later, I went back, tried it on and said I’d take it. Surprise! The jacket was almost $200 more than was originally quoted. It dawned on me that the salesclerk had played down the price to suck me in. And, sucker that I am, I went ahead and bought it. But not before I complained to the store manager.
HE: How about we climb out of this pit of commercial doom and gloom for a second while I relate the glorious story of Kilgour, French and Stanbury? They’re tailors, and I’ve never done any business with them, but they already have my total devotion.
I was planning a vacation to England and I had the exalted (too exalted as it turned out) idea of buying a suit in London from a Savile Row tailor. I did a little research and from what I could tell, Kilgour, French and Stanbury produced the sort of silhouette I was looking for. I wrote them a letter asking for particulars about fittings, time required, prices, appointments. I expected a form letter at best.
What I got was an epistle from the vice president of the firm, beautifully written, overflowing with detail and with just the right touch of solicitousness. It was a two-page, single-spaced primer on the Kilgour line, addressing itself specifically to my questions and ideas. I still have that letter.
The suit I had in mind was too pricey for me at the time, but you can bet that when I finally do visit Savile Row with money in my pocket, I’ll have eyes only for Kilgour.
SHE: Wish I could match that story with a kindly anecdote about European commerce. But one of the worst shopping experiences I ever had was in Paris. I was in the Guerlain perfume boutique and asked to see a beautiful bottle of fragrance that was on a high shelf. The clerk huffed: “Why do you need to look at it? This is not a souvenir shop!”
I’ll get to my description of the perfect salesclerk in a minute. But first, the rest of my pet peeves: salesclerks who flatter you to death to make a sale; shoe salesmen who haul out 95 pairs of shoes that you “might like” because they’re out of the one you want, clerks who call you at home to pump you full of sales talk.
HE: Wow, they must see you coming. Either that or I’ve been getting ignored all these years.
Actually, I think clerks in men’s departments and stores tend to be more restrained in the way they treat their male customers. It’s no secret that men shop with specific purposes in mind--no drifting or vacillating--so clerks generally lay off the flattery and keep the sales pitch muted. They don’t have to work very hard at persuading because, for the most part, the decision’s already been made.
SHE: Believe me, I shop with very specific purposes in mind. Perhaps other women don’t. I don’t know.
But, always and forever, I will gush my appreciation at salesclerks who go to the ends of the earth to find my size, who leave their department to help me when they see that I’m not being helped and who treat me warmly. I am always kind to them. I expect the same in return.
HE: I’ve talked to several people who have told me that if the clerk is nice to them they almost feel obliged to buy something from them. That’s what happens when sub-par service becomes routine.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all agree never to buy anything from rude salespeople, even if they can get us 90% off on English cashmere? Ah, well. Nobody said capitalism was going to be easy.