10

IMAGINE THE DIFFERENCE IF EVERYONE HUGGED . . . WOULDN’T IT BE NICE?

I’ve shared with you the particulars of Selling the Hug Your Customers Way, and understandably I’ve written a lot about clothing, because that’s what I’ve spent my life selling. As you’ve noticed, I’ve sprinkled in examples from other industries because selling is selling and I believe my approach can succeed with any product or service.

My family feels good about the way we practice selling and the way our salespeople go about their work, making customers happy and eager to return. My dream is that more businesses and providers of services will do likewise and sell the Hug Your Customers Way. It’s not something you can achieve overnight, but it is something that can be accomplished by conscious, steady effort. It’s like the old saying that “the only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.”

Every time I conduct my daily errands and encounter a rude salesperson or a business that repeatedly lets me down, I think of how it could be and muse to myself, “Wouldn’t it be nice . . . ?”

In fact, when I sit around with my feet up and drift into daydreaming, I imagine others selling the way that we do so that everyone wins. The deli selling that way. The flower shop. The airline. The dentist. The cell phone store. The used-car lot and the life insurance guy. Yes, even the proctologist!

While I’ve got your attention, I thought I’d take a few of those daydreams down from the shelf and dust them off. Remember, everywhere you go—hotel, restaurant, doctor’s office, or clothing store—there’s selling going on, and there needs to be a selling process. And also remember, everything that involves the customer is selling.

You can do it! You can follow your dreams and use the process of selling the hug your customer way in your business. Start today. As my friends at Nike say, “Just do it.”

SELLING ONION RINGS

I love a good meal, and the imaginary ones don’t pack on any weight, so this is one of my favorite daydreams. I call a restaurant that I’ve heard serves good food and get a reservation at seven for myself, Linda, son Todd, grandson Ryan, and Florence, my mother-in-law who’s 97 and going gangbusters.

Before we show up, the host checks the database to see if we had been there before. We haven’t. If we had, the host would be able to see our favorite dishes and whether we prefer a particular waiter or table.

When we arrive, the host says, “Hi there, Jack . . . welcome to Morty’s Fine Food . . . I believe it’s your first time here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I say.

“Love your jacket,” she says. “I’m not surprised for someone in the clothing business. I’ve heard many wonderful things about Mitchells.”

Well, well, the host had taken the time to Google me. She realizes there shouldn’t have to be any “cold calls” or “cold greetings.” Do your homework and look up new customers.

The host introduces us to Amy, our server, who asks, “Is this a special occasion?” She’s trying to pull out of the Mitchell family why we are dining tonight so she can take that into account.

Amy, alert to verbal and nonverbal cues, notes who appears to be the leader of the family (or the boss in a business meal). As she hands out menus, she quickly collects as many names as possible. She gives extra smiles to the youngest and the leader, who she assumes is me. And she determines if the family is in a hurry—it’s true that Ryan and my mother- in-law need to be in bed early—so she knows to hasten the process a bit. This information is passed on to her teammates.

Since it’s our first time, she says, in a positive, personal, friendly way, “We have lots of fun special items on the menu, lots of small different dishes that I think you will all love.”

She probes to see if there is something in particular that each of us really likes. She learns that I’m a sucker for onion rings and that I don’t eat fish, Linda likes seafood but generally doesn’t eat meat out, Florence doesn’t eat much but likes fish and enjoys puddings for dessert, and Todd likes everything. As for Ryan, he only likes hamburgers (no bun), pickles, plain pasta with butter, apple sauce, and peppermint ice cream. No kidding, that’s all he eats. Or maybe he would substitute steak for hamburger.

Amy catalogs all this and asks, “What can I get you to drink?” She notes who is of age but does not drink alcohol, which would be Linda, Todd, and Florence. That leaves me, of course. I generally say just ice water with lemon. When Amy goes to order the drinks, she puts into our new profile in the computer the preferences she has just learned.

The busser pours us water, and he is attentive to whether we like sparkling or still. Throughout the meal, he notes who drinks water quickly. He keeps an eye on the big water drinkers and learns that I like lemon with my water. He adds those facts to our profile.

When she takes our food order, Amy is listening with her ears and eyes. Are we sensitive to price? If that’s the case, Amy obviously looks for an item that is more popularly priced, and she says something like, “They are the best chicken fingers you can find in town.”

Amy is knowledgeable about all the dishes and articulates the features and benefits of Alaskan king crab and Long Island lobsters and brussels sprouts from California. She focuses on everyone, but her major focus is on the leader, trying to again remember his name—ah, it’s Jack—as well as the names of the rest of the family. I like to feel that the youngest is generally the most important member of a family—in this case, that’s Ryan—but it could also be the mother-in-law, who, after all, is 97 in our case and deserves plenty of respect.

Yet she listens and hears no mention of price. Well, Amy learns that we watch our pennies but that we will splurge a bit on a special occasion. She shares that there’s a Kobe steak that we think is outrageously priced, but it’s my birthday, and Todd says, “I will have one, Dad. Join me.” And I say, “You bet. I would love to do that.”

And I ask for two orders of onion rings, one for Todd and one for me.

Linda can’t decide between fish and shrimp, so Amy says, “I like both a lot, but I think you might prefer the fish from Norway.” (I strongly dislike it when some pompous server says, “My favorite is steak, Linda,” or “Fish, Jack.” And the person does this having not even asked if I like fish or meat.)

Amy picks up on my fetish for onion rings and makes a mental note to see if I’ll want another order later (I sure will). She knows people have their quirks and always enters them in the computer for future visits. (Talk about quirks. My brother Bill loves jelly with bread. And would you believe he puts jelly on turkey and chicken? Also he does not drink. We look alike and sound alike, but Bill has been some 28 years in sobriety, and if we are dining together and a server knows us, then the server will give Bill an iced tea and me a full-bodied red wine, thank you very much.)

When our salads are served, the server doing the pepper grinding gets the message, when I continue saying, “Keep going,” that I’m a high-maintenance pepper man. Listen, there are worse weaknesses. When he finishes, nearly emptying the grinder, he goes to the computer and adds my pepper fetish next to my onion ring compulsion.

Even with her other tables to manage, Amy keeps one eye on us at all times. (I have been in so many restaurants where the server has her head down talking to another colleague about TV plotlines or nail polish, but certainly not about customer service.) Amy is heads-up, smiling, checking in: “How is everything going, Jack . . . OK if I call you Jack?”

Amy responds beautifully when Florence eats slowly; Amy doesn’t try to speed her up, yet asks if she could bring the next course so others can keep going at a reasonable tempo. I say that would be great and that we will take home whatever Florence doesn’t eat.

When we’re done and settled up, the owner stops by our table to shake hands. She gives me a bag.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I hear you love onion rings. Take an order with you—on the house.”

Amy walks us to the door, thanking us for stopping by. She offers a business card, knowing that business cards are important for anyone who hopes to develop a relationship with a customer.

“Really hope you come again,” she says. “We will have the onion rings and pudding ready for you. And plenty of pepper for Jack!”

Before Amy goes home, she enters into the database some other details she has learned about the Mitchell family: nicknames, birthdays, emails, phone numbers, Florence is a slow eater.

A week later, Amy sends me a nice handwritten thank you note (yes, real ink pen with a real stamp). And Florence gets a call from Amy, who says, “Just calling to make sure you had a good time!” In 97 years, it’s the first call Florence ever got from a server. She can’t wait to tell her bridge group.

And then on November 27, the day after Thanksgiving, Amy actually sent a happy birthday card to Florence.

Did I mention that I had given Amy a big tip? Next time, it will be an even bigger one.

AN INSURANCE AGENT WHO’S NOT WORSE THAN DEATH

In this dream, I’m not long out of graduate school, making just enough money to cover the bills. I’ve married Linda, and our first child, Russell, has arrived. I’m a father feeling the pangs of adult responsibility. Even though Linda is more than full-time as a mother, she works several odd jobs teaching music and doing the accounting for a small clothing store.

Out of the blue, I get a telephone call from Larry, a life insurance salesperson. I figure I know the drill—insurance salespeople load you up with policies you don’t necessarily have any need for and couldn’t possibly understand: whole life, long-term care, tornado insurance, liability insurance, dog insurance, hamster insurance, this, that. I’d rather spend the day drinking vinegar. I recall the line from the film Love and Death: “There are worse things in life than death. I mean, if you’ve ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman, you know exactly what I mean.”

But I also remember another line (not from the movie) that I heard: “When you die, you are dead for a long time.”

I have to admit, Larry sounds awfully nice. “I’m not going to sell you anything you don’t want,” he says. “And I’m not going to sell you anything you don’t need, even if you think you want it. Everything will be totally transparent, no gobbledygook. At least discuss life insurance with me so your family will be OK if, heaven forbid, you get run over by a beer truck.”

“Well, I stay out of the way of beer trucks and prefer wine over beer,” I tell him.

Larry keeps coming back with statements like, “I only want you to buy what you want to purchase based on what you and I both agree would be responsible for you and your growing family. Do yourself a favor, and let’s meet. I’m really here for you and for Linda, whom by the way I think I met at one of my father’s and your father’s get-togethers. And I hear congratulations are in order. How is your new son, Russell, doing?”

He appears to be the antithesis (I remember this fancy word from graduate school) of what I envision life insurance salespeople to be. I agree to meet, though I don’t have the heart to tell him over the phone that Linda feels we shouldn’t spend a dime on life insurance. And yet, as far as I know, everybody dies sometime.

We have a cup of coffee at the diner, and he continues to call me Jack and shares with me his background and how he’s a family man. He persuades me in a very genuine way that I should learn more about life insurance, that I can trust him to give me an overview of the different types of policies out there, and that there are significant differences in both benefits and price. He shows me a bunch of charts that send my head spinning.

I confess to him that I am slightly dyslexic and that all the charts and graphs are confusing. He pats me on the shoulder (there’s that power of touch) and tells me, “My son has the same problem.”

He takes the time to review what the charts mean, clearly explains the difference between whole life, which could be part of a savings plan for the future, and term. He does me the courtesy of underlining and highlighting the most important aspects of each policy so I can get a better understanding of my options. Why didn’t my teachers do this in school?

From the get-go, he says I should always get a competitive bid. But he stresses that first I should understand types and prices and for sure work with someone who has my interest in mind and is in business for the long run and who represents many different insurance companies. I realize he has the same philosophy as Mom and Dad, who believed in a multibrand clothing store because certain shirts and sport coats fit differently for different people and customers have different price preferences, and that is why Dad’s store grew.

There is no pressure, no “sign right away” on the dotted line. “Just think on it,” Larry tells me. A few days later, Larry invites me to play golf. Since I can’t afford a country club membership, we play at the local public course and get to know each other.

Afterward, over lunch in the clubhouse, I ask for a bit more information and if Larry has an actual policy with him. He does. He shows it to me and explains even the fine print. And then he shuts up. He clearly knows the Close Your Mouth Principle.

And so I go for it and buy a small policy, which is all that I can afford, that would enable Linda—if, by hapless chance, I get hit by an errant golf ball and not a beer truck—to live for a year or two and not have to completely change her lifestyle.

A week later, I get a very nice handwritten personal note from Larry thanking me for the confidence I had in him and for buying a policy that we both agreed was proper for me at this stage of my life.

Two months later, I go to the mailbox, and there’s a nice birthday card for Linda from Larry.

It’s clear to both of us that he genuinely cares about us and isn’t the typical life insurance salesperson who sells a policy and then “dies away” so you never see him again.

Soon after, Larry treats me to another round of golf. He sort of mentions when I hit a wicked hook that just misses a golfer coming up the opposite fairway that I should maybe have some liability insurance, and as well, should a ball hit me and leave me disabled, I ought to have some type of disability insurance. But he tells me, “Think on it, and let’s clearly understand how these policies work.”

I bring up long-term care insurance that I heard some people at work were buying. “Not for you,” Larry says. “You’re still too young. We can revisit that in maybe 20 years.”

“Wow,” I think. “I’m interested in buying something that would earn him some bucks, and he tells me to forget it.” I trust him more than ever.

Life rolls along, and before long Linda and I buy a house, and we need homeowner’s insurance, so of course I call Larry. While he doesn’t specialize in homeowner’s, the agency that his father owns does, and the agency sends its specialist Mark to talk with Linda and me about what we need to properly insure our newest and, at the time, only asset.

FLYING WITHOUT BROKEN KNEECAPS AND WITH PLENTY OF NUTS

Oh boy, do I have my share of nightmarish airline stories. Who doesn’t! So I love this daydream.

I get to the airport for my flight to San Francisco on U.S. Smoothtrip Airlines and try to check in through the electronic kiosks. I probably look my usual helpless self, and a smiling attendant says, “You look like I can assist you,” and I say, “Well, could you please print my boarding pass; it’s tough for me since I’m slightly dyslexic.”

She quickly prints it up for me without making me feel like I am stupid or last in my class. She circles the gate number in red, knowing this will help someone like me who has challenges with numbers.

At the counter, my bags are weighed, and while the first one is 10 pounds under the limit, the second one is 2 pounds over; yet the attendant says, “Don’t worry. I didn’t see that.”

(What a relief from that last airline, when one of my bags weighed 54 pounds and the other was 25. I had stood in line for 20 minutes, and no matter how polite I was to the attendant, he was defiant: “Both have to be under 50 pounds.” He ordered me to the other side of the terminal, where, on the floor, I shifted 4 pounds from the heavier bag to the lighter one. Since it was smaller, it was now so crammed that I knew my dress shirts would be wrinkled. Transferring the clothing in the steaming hot terminal, I think I lost at least a pound or two of my own weight.)

I check in, and the attendant compliments me and engages me in some friendly conversation. I, of course, smile back. By the way, she asks, would I like a water to drink before I go through security?

Believe it or not, when I pass through security, the TSA guards are superpolite and smiling. They’re not only keeping us safe; they actually seem to like us.

I had gotten so tired of “Earn More Miles.” That’s all I would see on the big billboards and read in the papers. And it really irritated me hearing airlines talking about how “Safety is our first priority” and then stopping at that. Of course, they have second and third priorities. Yet they don’t seem to focus on them. Here I’m finding out that customers and service are also priorities.

When it’s time, I work my way down to the boarding area. I notice that someone is making calls to the parents or grandparents of children flying alone to let them know that little Bobby and Lizzy are safe and getting on the plane. Nice touch.

The captain comes out and makes a brief announcement welcoming everyone flying with him to San Francisco, and he takes a minute to introduce the crew that surrounds him.

I’ve heard that the captain meets with the flight attendants prior to every flight and looks over the guests (not “passengers” but “guests”) on the computer screen to see who is flying and to note if it is anyone’s birthday, or if it is an anniversary of a person’s first flight, or if anyone has been flying 10 years or 20 years, some key demarcation. The airline asks passengers to fill out a simple card where you can put down your nickname, birthdate, your spouse’s name, what you do, etc., as well as any special dietary restrictions or preferences like you eat chicken but not fish, or you prefer red wine over white, or you like extra nuts, which is me for sure.

Once I’m in my aisle seat, Sally, one of the flight attendants, stops by and says, “Hi, Jack” (kidding that it’s definitely not “hijack”), and she notices I have my handy-dandy back pillow. She whispers that she will get me a blanket if she has an extra one and says she will be back shortly with a glass of red wine. I say, “You can hold it until dinner.”

She smiles and says, “OK.”

As we are taxiing toward the runway, the captain comes on the speaker and shares with everyone that “today is Jill Rogers’s birthday. We are not going to tell you how old she is, but we are proud to have her on our flight. Let’s give a cheer for Jill! And I also learned in the boarding area that Ben just got into Stanford and he is traveling with us today to visit the campus. Way to go, Ben!”

Once we’re in the air, the TV screens come down, and on comes the president of the airline, who welcomes everyone and emphasizes that safety is first but adds that another top priority is to personalize customer service with each and every passenger.

Sally pops back and says, “Jack, I wonder if you need some help with the new electronics for the TV and email connection.” I sure do, and she is the answer to my prayers.

Amazingly, the earphones are large, not those skimpy ones that fall off your ears and must have been designed for toddlers. She shows me how I can look at movies I am interested in and how I can sign on to the Internet, which is free. I thank her very much.

After I have some water and tomato juice and my first round of nuts—it’s amazing the way the attendants just put them out now without my asking, knowing I am crazy about nuts; I think back to when they gave you a choice of crummy peanuts or pretzels, and if you asked for both, they shot you a look like you were a glutton.

As I relax, I tend to move my legs back and forth, and I have to say that over the years I have tried my best to keep my knees out of the aisle. Years ago, the attendants would push those beverage carts fast, as if trying to beat a red light, and on one flight the cart knocked my knee so hard, I can still feel the whack. But now the attendants take their time and actually look ahead and ask you politely to move your legs if they think they are going to bash them.

While we have our nuts, an attendant announces a fun game for whoever wants to participate. It is almost like Jeopardy with little quizzes, and the winners get a bottle of wine or some modest prize. Everyone is laughing and having a good time.

Then comes dinner, and by the time they get to me in the back of the bus, I hear the flight attendant say to passengers two rows up, “Well we have fish, chicken, and pasta, but we have run out of chicken, and all we have left is just fish and pasta.” Ugh. I don’t eat fish, and I am trying to control my carbs for weight. But then Sally bends down and says, “I’ve saved you some chicken. I’m glad you put it on your personal information card.”

The last airline I flew on, I apparently broke aviation law when I asked the attendant if there was any chance I could get a side order of my addiction, onion rings, since the menu showed a picture of a hamburger with onion rings.

“No,” I was told. “The rule is you only get them with a hamburger.”

And yet, wow, Sally is now putting down an order of onion rings next to my chicken.

“We noticed your love of onion rings in your profile,” she says, “so we thought we’d bring you some. Hope you like them.”

I look around, and everyone is still smiling, except the three people who are snoring.

When the captain announces that we are descending into San Francisco, Sally comes down the aisle and checks on seat belts and reminds me, “Don’t forget your back pillow.”

As I leave the plane, the captain offers me his business card and a little note that says on my next flight the chances of getting an upgrade are excellent.

When I get to the baggage area, not only hasn’t my luggage been lost; it’s already there.

A day later, I get an email thanking me for flying and, since it’s my birthday next week, a coupon for $100 off on my next flight.

SELLING BULBS AND BIRDSEED

As my friends are well aware, I really don’t love shopping, especially for items I don’t know very much about. But I need lightbulbs. At home, I climb up to remove a pair that have met their natural end, one a 60 watter and the other a 40. I also need silver polish since Linda reminds me that friends are coming over, that it’s my job to polish the silver, and that we are out of silver polish. I dash off to the Shopaholic Depot. I’ve been there several times, but not in a while.

I’m barely in the door when a salesperson bounds up to me with a big smile and says, “Hello, Jack, do you need more birdseed?”

I vaguely remember him as the one who helped me, goodness it seems like eight or nine months ago, when I needed vacuum cleaner bags and, yes, birdseed. I can’t recall his name, but I’m amazed that he remembers I bought birdseed and that I go by Jack, not John. (Turns out the store runs a contest and makes it a game for sellers to know the names of their customers and one thing they bought the last time they were there.)

Matter of fact, I could use more birdseed. Those birds have been feasting all winter long. So I say, “Yes I do, and it’s great to see you again.”

“I’m Tom, if you don’t remember,” he says, and he shakes my hand with a nice firm grip.

“I also need some lightbulbs,” I tell him. “Here, I have a sample of each, and I need some silver polish.”

Before we get going, I say I have to go to the bathroom and ask where it is. He actually shows me to the men’s room rather than saying, “Over there.” (One way I judge a store is by bathroom instructions. When I get told, “It’s upstairs. Take a left, make a right, drop down a step,” it’s too much, and I don’t even listen. I will have to ask again.)

We meet up at the lightbulb department, where I notice Tom punching something into the computer. Maybe he’s checking the inventory on lightbulbs. He begins to explain to me the difference between bulbs—those that burn a little brighter but consume more energy and cost more money to use. He recommends those lights that cost a dash more but save energy and money.

Since I am energy minded and want to be a good American and a green citizen and be energy independent, I opted for the ones he recommends. Next, Tom brings me two different types of silver polish and strongly recommends the liquid over the paste. He says, “You should probably buy two bottles. Even though I love seeing you, I am sure from what you told me last time that you have quite a bit of silver.”

As we are moving toward the checkout lane, Tom mentions, “I checked a minute ago in the computer, and it shows that a year and a half ago, Jack, you bought a beautiful new dishwasher for Linda. I assume it is still working perfectly. I did give you a call right after you bought it, and you said it was working just fine, and I haven’t heard from you since then.”

“Yes, it’s working fine, and Linda loves it, though I do the dishes,” I say.

“I noted that you also were considering a new stove then,” Tom says. “Did you buy one, or are you still thinking about it?”

“Still thinking. Though our anniversary is coming up, and Linda has been complaining that one of the burners is kaput.”

“I have just what I think you need,” Tom says. “I checked your kitchen layout in the computer, and I have one of our best stoves on sale this week.”

He gives me the price, and it is within my budget. Tom knows that I’m solidly in the buying mood and that’s when you build your sale, but he’s also identifying real needs. For someone like me who doesn’t like to shop, it helps to get as much of it as possible out of the way in one swoop.

After I agree on the stove, Tom says, “You know, a stove isn’t the sexiest and most romantic anniversary present. Might you want something else in that department?”

“Maybe so,” I say. “Any ideas?”

After a moment, Tom says, “You know what might work? What if you bought her a really special, attractive teapot that she could put on the stove? It might balance beauty with practicality. Or some phrase like that you could put on her anniversary card.”

“I like that,” I say.

Tom escorts me to the teapot aisle and helps me pick out a sexy teapot.

“Can you get the stove installed by the sixteenth?” I ask

“Sure can,” Tom replies, “even if I have to do it myself.”

We finally make it to the customer checkout line. I say, “We forgot the birdseed!”

Tom says, “No, I have it right here.”

It’s a bit busy, so Tom takes me to a special line and rings up the sale for the bulbs, the polish, the seed, the teapot, and the stove. I notice that he puts my anniversary date into my customer information profile.

We walk to the door, and he actually helps me carry the birdseed to my car, somehow knowing I had a gimpy back years ago, and says, “Happy anniversary, Jack. I know Linda will enjoy her gifts, and I hope to see you again in the future.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back,” I tell him.

Who would have guessed? Me, the highly reluctant shopper, came in for silver polish and bulbs . . . loved the shopping experiences from a hugging seller . . . and ended up with birdseed, a teapot, and a stove. I’m already thinking, doesn’t the lawn mower need replacing?

Now, as I’ve pointed out, these are my daydreams. But they can easily become your reality. It’s a matter of studying the Hug Your Customers selling philosophy and making it part of you and your culture. All it takes is time. And caring.