Speaking Human to Customers

We know one another in real life, as real people living real lives.
You’d think this would translate over to the virtual world, wouldn’t you?
At least once a week, we’d take the same studio class and sweat, lunge, and work harder than we’d ever dreamed possible.
She works for the company that runs the studios, so I wasn’t surprised when an email arrived from her about the new direction the business has taken.
What surprised me was her email gave no indication that she — or they — or anyone in the company — had any idea who I am.
The email was one you’d send to a prospect entreating them to join you — not someone you have a relationship with already.
What did surprise me is that her email gave no indication that she — or they — had any idea who I am.
I don’t hold her personally responsible. We haven’t shared our real-life facts and emails. I imagine that this email went out to all the clients they hope to retain as they shift their locations and focus.
I am perplexed.
I’ve been a client of the company for over a year, a well-paying and regular one. The people at the studio know me in person for my charm, wit, and gritty determination (that’s what I’d like to think). I show up. I pay my bills. I am unfailingly courteous, supportive, talking others into trying the studio.
During that year, we’ve had the occasional kerfuffle, small confusions easily remedied with a telephone call, quick email exchange. That’s business.
We’ve also had a major meeting of the minds. When I learned that the studio was closing, I blasted a long, detailed email to the owner. She responded back swiftly with facts, figures, and rationale. Her grace under fire was exceptional, particularly given her being blindsided by someone who signed a contract and then reneged at the last minute.
I am also bewildered.
The email today was one that you send to a new client, a prospect who tried one class.
The offer is significantly sweeter than the current sweet deal I have. What’s more, I held on to that sweet deal even when the company offered to release me from any further obligation. I felt it was only fair to see the original agreement to the end — and there wasn’t much time remaining.
I would have done better leaving them cold and coming back fresh as if we didn’t know one another, hadn’t sweat together for the past 15 months.
It feels like fast-talking, bait-and-switch con artistry, the kind of thing you’ve learned to expect from tech companies and service providers.
A million years ago, I talked my employer into using a nifty new research and marketing tool that would use customer information to provide information and offers tailored to that individual. The information was already available. The individual customers had opted into the program. All we had to do was sign on the line, figure out what we wanted to offer, and turn it on.
We turned it on and it worked. It worked so well that senior managers had us double check the information to make sure that the results were this good.
The numbers were right and the customers were happy. Everyone was happy with a tool that now looks like a mallet and stone tablet that allowed us to reach individuals with offers that were relevant to them.
This little escapade took place decades ago.
Since then, technology has leapt, spun, evolved beyond anything imagined.
Yet, somehow we’re dumber and more clumsy than we’ve ever been.
We don’t know the people we know, even when they tell us who they are over and over again, filling in forms diligently and double checking the numbers to make sure that they typed them in correctly. We don’t listen to them, even when we ask them questions and they answer them using the genius questionnaires we shove at them.
Can someone develop a tool to speak human?
The clerk at the local independent supermarket crooked her finger to me with a delicious grin.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come in. I wanted to tell you what those balloons were all about….”
It was a small thing. A very small thing. Over the weekend, someone brought in three colossal white balloons for the store to fill with helium. Apparently, their enthusiastic, can-do spirit was not up to filling tough-skinned balloons.
Why three balloons? Why white?
For the life of us, we couldn’t figure it out, called over others to help us. All of us were stumped, calling out ideas, and getting sillier until we were roaring through tears of laughter.
She told me why it was three balloons and why white.
We stared at one another. Then we agreed that it was ridiculous. Our guesses were a lot better. We chatted about the weather, about tomatoes and roses and dogs.
She knows me.
And she didn’t need an algorithm.
Or a tool or a data set or nifty new machine.
She used ancient technology.
It’s called knowing a person and remembering who they are, what they tell you, and talking with them as if they’re a real person of importance, worthy of respect.
This is speaking human.
No top secret stuff required.
