Insignificant, or the best ever?
My wife, Kate, has been going to the same hair salon for years. The person who does her hair is mostly the same hairdresser, but the assistants who wash hair change frequently.
Just this week, she observed a new apprentice getting ready to wash her hair. He was a ‘too cool for school’ type: a young man with a slightly surly expression and who looked like he spent hours ‘curating’ his clothing each day.
However, as soon as her head was at the basin, she realised she was in the hands of someone who knew what he was doing. Now, hair washing is a mundane process, but strangely intimate when someone else is doing it for you. And, Kate said, her experience of it was fabulous - he had a technique and a touch that was commanding.
She told him as much straight afterwards, and his entire demeanour changed. He smiled broadly, relaxed, and almost took on the look of a bashful boy as he replied, “You know, no-one’s ever told me that before. But thanks”.
When Kate told me this insignificant anecdote I wondered whether anyone ever would tell him again. And, yet, it made a difference to him to know that — and I suspect would also be of value to his employer to know how good he is at it.
Question: How do you know who’s outstanding at something your customers value tremendously?
The difference between excellent and exceptional
While I’m writing about my wife, let me share another anecdote with a strategic insight attached. Last week was Kate’s first birthday in 3 years when we in Melbourne haven’t been in some form of COVID-induced social restriction.
So my son Jasper and I took her somewhere very special: the chef’s table at CBD restaurant Kisume. Yes, there were truffles and wagyu beef, abalone and caviar and tuna belly. There were blowtorches and hibachi grills, and ingredients I’d never heard of, explained by a charismatic chef who stood and prepared the food in front of us, within a horsehoe-shaped ‘bar’ at which just seven of us sat.
We all had a wow of a time.
But the ‘wow’ wasn’t just the quality of the dishes, nor the celebration. What Kisume did expertly was satisfy some deep human needs by understanding three features that I have long believed separate the merely excellent from the truly exceptional, especially in service industries.
They created rapport: The chef didn’t just do the customary service gestures — he connected with us, told stories, some of which were self-deprecatory, and at times even funny. For the customer, rapport creates a sense of belonging, and comfort.
They had rituals (within rituals): While the whole ‘chef’s table’ setting is a ritual unto itself, there were dozens of miniature rituals too: the menu printed on card inside black envelopes that were ‘revealed’ to us; each dish was offered up solemnly on different artisanal porcelain. For customers, rituals create confidence — the customer knows they’re in expert hands.
They were congruent: Here was a place — and a man — who lived and breathed curiosity and persistence in pursuit of amazing morsels of taste and texture. For customers, congruence creates meaning, and also a palpable and deeply satisfying feeling of authenticity and alignment.
Whether you’re in the business of restaurants, or aged care, or financial services, the truth is that all of the above are felt by your customers, even if they’re not consciously sought. Think about it this way: when customers aren’t happy, it’s usually because something’s stuffed up (failure of ritual), they weren’t taken care of (failure of rapport), or things were done superficially or carelessly (failure of congruence).
Question: How can you systematise ritual + rapport + congruence in your service offerings?
Recovery
The best art provokes a feeling, just as the best literature does, and I’ve finished a disturbing but wonderful novel this week, Chris Womersley’s “The Diplomat” (Disclosure: The author is a friend). I can’t reveal too much without a plot spoiler, however, I can say it’s a novel about heroin users who are also artists. Or is it about artists who are heroin users? Or perhaps just people who (occasionally) produce art, and (regularly) use heroin.
What the book is really about, though, is the path of failed potential.
But, the thought that recurred for me after finishing was this: “How bad a set of circumstances can we actually recover from?” The characters are tragic and flawed, and I won’t reveal if redemption occurs or not, but I warmed to the narrator and keenly wanted him to rise above his dilemmas and limitations.
The relevance to strategic thinking in organisations is this: we all fail, and sometimes fail badly. One of my clients, right now, is debating whether their strategy should include closure as some directors hold genuine doubts that they can elevate their services to even a competitive level, let alone one that is distinctive or unique.
Question: How do you make decisions about recovery potential when you appear to be in the deepest pit of failure?
P.S. Do you have a colleague who would benefit from this? Please feel free to share.
And, as always, I truly appreciate you letting me know you’ve enjoyed reading, so please click the ‘heart’. Until next Friday, let someone wash your hair or at least serve you an amazing morsel or two.
Andrew
Great article - which was the hair salon? Having a great hair wash makes the experience so much better! :)