Taxi texts

I fly to Boston every Monday morning.
In order to get to the airport, I take a taxi every Monday morning.
Because I'm not at my peak performance at 4:30 am, I book the taxi the night before.
I call the taxi company to do this.
I am on hold for a few minutes each time.
This comes with the convenience of having the car waiting.

The last time I did this, however, I later got a text response.
It informed me that, should I choose to use their service again, I could simply text my request.

Oh, the beauty of it!
(I do love sending a good text...)

So I tried it out.
The night before.
Because that's when I'm at (more) peak performance.

And, as it turns out, their service is not set up for "night before" requests.
They tried to dispatch a taxi right then.
and I quickly had to follow up with a "cancel dispatch" text.
Because, for goodness sake, I didn't even have a bag packed!

So instead I called.
And I sat on hold.
So I could place my request for the next morning.

And the whole time I was on hold, all I could think was:

wouldn't it benefit both of us if that "text" feature simply included a "time" element?

On "protein bars"

Given the nutritional information, if protein bars on the market right now were named after what they really were, the majority woulld all be called "sugar bars" instead.

PowerBar:

Clif Bar:

The mystery of Marriott categories

According to Marriott's website, I qualify for a FREE NIGHT (!) at any Category 7 hotel...

Sounds neat enough, right?

It does, until you consider this: Marriott doesn't offer any additional information on what, exactly, "Category 7" means or which properties the label constitutes, let alone allow the user the immediately apparent capabiltiy to search by "Category" while booking or exploring the website, in order to use this Free Night. After looking for about a minute - which is already longer than it should require a user to use a reward - I finally used Google to get a (piecemeal) answer.

If you offer your customers a reward, you must also then:

a. educate them on what, exactly, the reward is

b. allow them to research how to use it

The value of prettiness

I hate getting my hair cut.

I had an appointment with my stylist today and, at some point during the multi-hour process, it dawned on me:

I would rather go to the dentist for two hours than be here.

In fact, if I could – and logistics made it a feasible alternative – I think I would rather get my wisdom teeth removed every six weeks than get my hair done.

I hate getting my hair cut.

The problem always begins as I’m sitting there, when all I have to do – for two hours – other than make small talk with my stylist or thumb through mindless magazines, is stare at myself in the mirror. Invariably, at some point while doing this, I begin to feel incredibly un-pretty.

Now, that’s not to say I feel that way in general. I feel pretty when I get ready for work on Monday or when I go out on Friday nights. I can even feel pretty in a ponytail running errands on Saturday morning.

But there’s something about the experience of the salon – wrapped up to your neck in what feels like a plastic garbage bag, shuffling around from the stylist’s chair to the sink, and then staring at yourself, with your wet hair pulled back, and scrutinizing the bags under your eyes – that makes you feel utterly un-pretty.

Now typically, being made to feel “un-pretty” in isn’t a big deal. Nobody expects to feel “pretty” while standing in line at the DMV, picking up after their dog, or visiting the gyno. When it comes to salon visits, though, “feeling pretty” is exactly what you’re ultimately paying several hundred dollars for.

So why should we be made to feel the opposite during the appointment?

And it can't just be me, because there are some critical "human" qualities missing at the salon...

When it comes the cut… I expect them to preserve some of my hair – after all, we agreed in the beginning that it was “very fine” – and it’s like nails on a chalkboard when they suddenly start “texturing” it, sliding their scissors along the strand of hair. (We definitely didnt agree to that! Who wants to pay for that sensation?) But I typically don't say anything, because again, by this point, I've come to terms with the fact that just about the entire process makes me uncomfortable. So I sit there in silence as the hair on my arms stands on end under the garbage bag.

And then the blow dryer – it’s always too hot or goes on for far too long. While my stylist is concentrating on his handiwork, I’m busy calculating the stress he’s causing my hair, utterly neurotic in my conviction that he’s frying what little is left of it after the “texturizing” move.

Lastly, the unveiling - Maybe I go in with my expectations set too high, but I always feel disappointed as the realization hits me: when it comes to my hair, this is probably as good as it gets… which is not much better than how I came in.

(My hair, no matter the investment I make, looks alarmingly similar to Justin Long’s character in The Break Up. Not pretty.)

But I always fiend a smile, because it’s not their fault my hair sucks, and coo over the color, to reassure them of this. The whole time feeling like I've been had - like I didn't get the "pretty" I was promised.

I pay them a ton of money for this process – much more, I always feel, than I should, given my hair. And as I’m bottling resentment and disappointment and impatience to escape this place as soon as possible, I smile and promise to come back in six weeks.

“Don’t wait so long this time!”
“I won’t!"
We both know I will.
Because why would I willingly put myself through this again any time soon?

And as bolting out the door, the thought always crosses my mind: it shouldn’t feel this way.

On Best Buy

Dear Best Buy,

I recently went into one of your locations looking for a particular DVD. I couldn't find it, so I looked around for an associate to help me. I had to walk halfway around the store to locate one, and when I found her, she was busying herself with the task of hovering over the "caution: wet floor" sign, attempting to balance it on one leg as she stared blankly past it at the floor.

I gently interrupted - somewhat fearing the consequences of startling her from her trance - and asked her to help me find the DVD. She complied, and off we went to accomplish the task.

I dug through a bargain bin while she searched the inventory online. She found the film. Unfortunately, it was only being carried in Blu-Ray format. And this is where things really got dicey:

"Oh," I sighed when she told me, "that won't work. We have a DVD player."
"Well," she piped optimistically, "you could just buy a Blu-Ray player."
I stared at her.
She went on. "Eventually," she said, "everything will be Blu-Ray."
And that's when I got angry.
"That's fine." I glared. "But right now everything isn't. Right now we have a DVD player. And right now I want to buy a DVD. I'm not going to spend ten times as much just to watch a film because you weren't selling it in our format."

(A format that - just so we're both clear - still exists. Yet somehow doesn't work for you. Right now.)

Best Buy, if you don't carry the $10 item I want, why would you expect me to buy the $100 item I don't?

When you have your 1997 Honda tuned up, do you want your mechanic to tell you that they don't have your replacement part in stock and instead try to sell you a hybrid?

Of course not! You want to know why?
It's dismissive ("you don't want that.") It's alienating ("don't you know?!") And it's rude.

Best Buy, you can carry all the techonology in the world, but you never learned to embrace your customer. This is why you're going out of business.

A Kimpton Christmas

We stayed at the Kimpton in Dallas on Christmas night this year. We were driving through, coming from one side of the family that morning and going on to another the next day, and were at the hotel for less than 12 hours.

Before we arrived, Kimpton reached out to us, expressing their desire to make our holiday special and asking if there was anything we could do. J in turn reached out to me for guidance, and I suggested "something simple, but Christmasy."

(I was secretly hoping for hot chocolate and cookies.)

When we got to our room and dropped our bags, there laid out for us was a spread of hot chocolate powder, hot water in a steel canister, mini marshmallows, candy cane bits, chocolate and butterscotch chips, and shortbread cookies - all displayed in cute dishes. And a handwritten note that said, in essence, "enjoy."

Wonderful! (I wish I'd thought to take a photo.)

I called them afterwards to thank them. That's how hospitality should go.

How Ritz Carlton lost me as a customer before I was one

Dear Ritz Carlton,

My significant other and I spent several nights on the club level at a Ritz Carlton resort in Mexico. It was my first experience with your brand, and will likely be the last.

While the grounds were technically beautifully-landscaped, the linens luxurious, the food delicious and generous, and the beach a gorgeous setting, you fell flat on one very important thing: recognizing me as a guest.

Over the course of several days, from the moment we checked in until the moment we walked out, I was greeted - and addressed - as "Mrs. (my boyfriend's last name.)"

Since we're not married and I, in fact, have a different last name – one that is very real and very much my identity - I find this appalling. I was sitting next to him the entire time your staff checked us in. You served us mimosas before we'd even gotten our room key, and yet you couldn't think to ask me one very simple question: "what is your name?" It’s an oversight that communicates an utter lack of consideration.

(Perhaps I'm wrong, but my understanding is that this sort of treatment is reserved for gracefully addressing all of the many "Mrs. (unfaithful married man)" that come through your hotel. Whether that's true or not, quite frankly, I didn't appreciate it. Having been in a relationship for several years now and the only possible female guest accompanying my significant other, I am as much of a valued guest as he is - not somebody whose identity he's hiding.)

If you think I'm exaggerating the magnitude of your mistake, let us not forget Rule #3 from Dale Carnegie's infamous "six ways to make people like you:"

"Remember that a person's name is, to that person, the sweetest and most important sound in any language."

When you don't use their name, you strip them of something very dear to them. You imply that their identity is inconsequential to you.

When, however, you insist on calling them a name that is not even theirs, you commit an even worse offense: you communicate that they are, in your mind, a mere shadow of somebody else's identity.

You are obviously familiar with this rule, given your emphasis on using guests' names to begin with. But you should know, Ritz Carlton, that your practice of limiting this treatment solely to those individuals who hand over their credit cards is repulsive. And you are catastrophically delusional if you think it is "good customer service." (Quite frankly, I'd rather your staff not have greeted me at all.)

On your website, you proudly boast being "the Gold Standard of Hospitality." Well, here's a reality check: your gold standard doesn't mean anything to the people who are made to feel they don't exist.

A guest with a name to remember,

KG