When things get used

There's a lot of stuff out there. A lot of stuff that gets designed, engineered, built, installed, but never used.

You know what I'm talking about - you see this stuff in stores all the time. Like the "Fastener Finder" at Home Depot. I tried touching the screen to begin, but immediately got stuck when I didn't know if I wanted wood screws, machine screws or drywall screws. Who uses this thing? If you're in the vast fastener aisle at Home Depot, you hopefully know which kind of screws you're looking for. And if you don't, why would you go through six menus when there are guys in orange aprons every ten feet?


Then there's the "Answer Phone" inside Sprint stores. It's a red phone on a small kiosk, where you can sit and, I'm assuming, get answers from someone (ideally someone who works for Sprint). This phone is deader than roadkill. Why would you want to call someone, when there are live people not five feet from said phone?

The point is, things don't get used when they aren't well-designed. And to be well-designed, something has to meet a real need. Where do you find real needs? You look all around you.

Trader Joe's knows what I'm talking about. They meet a need when they see one. For example, plenty of their customers are dog owners, and the city location means people are walking there. What were people doing with their dogs while they shopped for organic salmon and trail mix? I'm guessing it was one of three things. They either tied their dogs to parking meters (of which there are very few), brought their dogs inside (serious problems spring to mind), or left them at home. I bet they left them at home.

So Trader Joe's now has the Doggie Dock. It's got ample hooks to tie your dog, space for it to walk around, and even a bowl of water. Does it cost a lot of money? No. Does it meet a real need? Yes.

Does it get used? You bet.

The genuine compliment

How do you like to try on clothes?

If you are male, you probably want to walk down a long row of stalls, get in, see if they fit, and get out.

But if you are female, you probably want to do a whole lot more than that. Show it to your friends, get the saleslady's opinion, and look in at least five mirrors.

So there's this new store called Forth & Towne. It's targeted at women over 35, and it has lots of originality and flair that its owner, The Gap, lacks.

The Forth & Towne store I visited has areas for different brands, like an old department store. It has sketches of its clothes pinned to the wall along with swatches of fabric, bringing the shopper closer to the fashion design process. It is filled with 40-year-old saleswomen who all look great. The store is generating buzz through photo contests, lures of membership benefits and the overall theme of indulgence. It works.

But what I feel works best about Forth & Towne is actually its dressing room. In the center of the store, it's an open, rounded space with twelve mirrored fitting rooms surrounding a central ottoman of sorts. Even though the area was empty, I could immediately envision shopping companions sitting here, giving opinions to not only their friends, but other women who were trying things on. And this is really, really powerful.

I'll try to illustrate with a story. When I was in college, I was persuaded by a friend to try on a pair of tight black pants. This was NOT my style, but she was persistent. When I came out of the dressing room, my friend said "Oh, they look great!" Did I take her seriously? Eh. Only about 30% seriously. She's my friend, she's motivated to get me to buy them because she'll feel good about helping with my new look. I wasn't convinced.

Then the salesgirl came over, and said "Those look great on you." All right, fine, thanks I guess. I took her about 50% seriously - she didn't have to say anything, but she's also motivated because she wants to make a sale. I was getting slightly more convinced.

But then - a total stranger, a woman that I've never met, came over and said "Hey, those look great on you!" Whoa. Someone who doesn't know me, who has no profit motive and is never going to take credit later, has complimented me on the pants. That's it, 100% convinced. I had to get them.

I think that Forth & Towne is cleverly planning to facilitate this moment every day in their stores. Their dressing room is more than a convenient place for the friend to rest her feet. It's a social town hall, where women will feel compelled to compliment each other and in turn make each other buy more clothes. They are literally turning their customers into salespeople! Genuine, trustworthy salespeople who have no apparent motivation other than to be nice to you!

I predict that Forth & Towne will succeed not because of the clothes it sells, but because of the magical moments created by genuine compliments from random strangers. Nice job, guys.

Me or my car

So I have a new car, and I want to keep it clean, but I don't have a hose and driveway. So I take it to the carwash.

I go to a place called White Glove Car Wash. You drive up, you pick from a menu (hand-dry? wax? vacuuming?) and then you sit in this small, slightly cramped waiting room where you can buy Snickers bars and air fresheners. The experience isn't great, but it's certainly acceptable and they do a good job. My Golf looks shiny, and I feel responsible and proud when I leave.

So the other day, I drive up to White Glove, and I turn in, but wait - this doesn't look like White Glove! The space is bigger, the menu looks different, and I feel disoriented. I get out of my car, and a guy asks, "Would you like a Just Fine Shine? Or a Wine & Dine Shine? Perhaps a To The Nines Shine?"

What is going on? Did I step into a black hole? I look around some more and realize that actually, I am in a different car wash that is - no joke - right next door to White Glove. I am literally here by accident.

But this place is totally fascinating. It's called Simon's Shine Shop. It's taking the carwash to a whole new level.

I discover this when I enter the waiting room. A well-groomed young gentleman greets me at the rounded wooden counter. He looks like a hotel concierge. There are plush leather chairs everywhere. There are trendy magazines, coffee and tea, pillows in the window seats, and a children's play area. There is WiFi!

The guy tells me they have a loyalty program, and that my tenth wash is free. Oh, and they also give massages on Sundays from 11 to 2. This place rocks!

But as I make some tea and sink into one of the chairs, I start thinking more about it. Am I paying more for this place? I can't remember prices at White Glove, but somehow Simon's feels more expensive. And is this experience really worth the money to me?

A few more women come in, and either start reading Vogue, or take their toddlers to the toy area. They all look wealthy and busy. My comfort level starts to change as I begin to feel out of place. Unlike White Glove, where the carwash feels like a tedious-yet-responsible chore, at Simon's I feel a little indulgent, almost guilty. Like I'm throwing money away to sit in a luxury lounge, while the guys washing my tires and vacuuming my floormats probably make $8 an hour. I feel like I am here for me, not for my car.

There's certainly nothing wrong with catering to the person with the wallet. It's like how day care centers take pains to make parents feel secure. And veterinarians spend half their energy on the pet owners. Why not focus on the driver, more than the car? After all, the car's not gonna drive back here by itself!

So I decided the real test would be the quality of the carwash. If Golfie was clean, and I mean superiorly clean, then Simon's was worth it.

But you know what? My windows were still wet. Now they are streaky. The center console has a strange wet-looking stain. And whatever they used on the pedals now makes a little squeak when my shoe rubs it.

The bottom line: great experience or poor experience - for me, a carwash still needs to be about the car.

It's not really money

Chicago has a posh downtown mall called Water Tower Place, and on the ground floor is a cafeteria of sorts called Foodlife. It's a unique concept: instead of paying at the beginning, like most cafeterias, you get a plastic "Foodcard." As you order dishes at the various kiosks, each attendant swipes your card. Then, you eat. You don't even open your wallet until the end, when you tally up your total and pay.

This interaction is liberating because you don't have to think about money. You just hand the guy your card and voila - dinner. It's fun! I bet people love Foodlife because it's a stress-free place. Low commitment. But I think that the concept of a Foodcard - or any currency-free zone - could get a little risky.

I've been to the Taste of Chicago, and I've been to Dave & Buster's, and both do something similar. They make you pay up front in order to use their alternative currency.

At the Taste, you get tickets. You buy a bunch of them, but then it's so confusing to keep mentally converting tickets into dollars when each ticket is like $1.75 that you just say "Okay fine! I'll buy the lobster roll for 9 tickets!" And you end up spending waaaaay more than you would if you knew the lobster roll was actually $15.75. It's the same at D&B - if you want to play video games, you put money on a Power Card and never look back.

I think that the concept of a currency-free zone is a little scary because it takes advantage of people. They subconsciously think, "I am not spending any money right now, because I do not see any cash leaving my hands." Then they buy more. It's like any credit card or bank loan, but on a micro level. Very easy to abuse.

When places make spending money fun like this, people will spend more. And don't get me wrong - I think there's a huge opportunity here to make spending fun. Convert your dollars into stickers or punchcards or stamps or toys, and spend away! It's not money, it's just chips at a casino! It's not really dollars, just a fun plastic card!

But as consumers, we're going to have to control ourselves when using alternative currency. We can't let Foodlife lure us into getting dessert every time. Because even when it's all dressed up, it's still our hard-earned dough.