Growing up as the daughter of a "small" business owner, I was thrust into work the moment I turned the legal working age. It might surprise a few that have known me for a long time to know that my first job wasn't a secretarial position in the office of my dad's company. My dad was a firm believer in what he called "the school of hard knocks". My first job was as a janitor and maintenance worker for his 22 service stations. My duties were to clean the restrooms, windows, mop floors, dust the interiors and paint curbs. Initially, I was appalled that my dad was having me do this. My other "day job" was as a high school student who frequently wore designer clothes to school. Cleaning a gas station bathroom? Disgusting. Not going to lie. It was one of the grossest things that I ever had to do. I still clearly remember the gas station that always smelled appallingly like dirty diapers. However, the more that I did this job, the more it struck me as to why he had me doing it. It wasn't to put me in my place or ground me in reality. It was to teach me the lesson that a clean gas station with neatly painted curbs was important for business. Whenever I was done with the whole process, I would step back and see the difference in appearance. The stations always looked so much better after the fact and consumers were more likely to buy from that which looked good.
My dad always acknowledged this in his own business. I'll never forget the time when a station supervisor, after being told to repaint a bathroom, chose to repaint it in a deep red. My dad nearly came unglued with rage, saying that it looked more like a bordello than a bathroom. The supervisor, duly scolded, repainted the bathroom to a grey tone. It took a lot of paint to cover that deep red. How something looked was more important than the cost of the additional gallons upon gallons of paint that it took to cover that red. I remember buying gas one time from a well maintained little gas station who had taken the time to fill wooden barrels with flowers. I complimented the attendant on how good the station looked and how much I liked the flowers. Turned out to be the owner of the station and he realized who I was. The compliment made him so happy because it came from me. It made him even happier when I told him that I was going to suggest his idea to my dad. He was gushing gratitude that I had noticed and liked it that much. To a 17 year old girl, it was incredibly embarrassing, but I did tell my dad about what I had seen and, ever thereafter, we had flowers at all of our stations. Despite my embarrassment, I had learned the lesson that looking good meant more business.
Unlike a lot of mom and pops back then, we had the money to do this. I'm not even sure how much money our stations generated though I worked in the office. I never bothered to find out because my dad, although a brilliant businessman, was a horrible accountant. My dad's degree was in marketing and that served him quite well for a very long time. When he and I were at a station which was backed up, we both knew that popping out of our nice cars and pumping gas in our very nice clothes would blow away customers. They absolutely loved it that we would pump their gas and clean their windshields without a care for our clothing. It showed that we cared more about them. That little appearance turned what would've been an annoyed customer into an amazed one. As my dad often said, "appearances mean everything".
What people don't realize is that this was nothing unique to my dad. Other companies did the same sort of thing. If you were branded as a retailer or switched brands, the first thing that had to be done was re-painting. When Chevron was trying to get my dad to switch brands, they offered him $4 million to do so. This included re-painting all of the stations into the "Chevron colors" and replacing signage. Every major oil retail brand has its own colors. When my dad went "un-branded" in an attempt to save his business from the big oil companies' predations, he was sued by Chevron for trademark infringement. I can tell you that the suit wasn't because the signage was similar and there's a reason why my dad ended up painting his stations purple and green. A trademark included specific colors. If he had Texaco grey up on the building and was operating as a Chevron, he would've been in big trouble. It would've been trademark infringement. Purple and green were probably the safest colors that coordinated that he could choose. In the world of business, looks are a very serious matter.
The reason is simple. People want to be in a business establishment that is clean, neat, and well designed. It makes us feel good about where we're at and maybe even who we are. You see the same thing in the shopping malls. Marble or wooden floors, expensive lighting, plants, fountains--they are all there. Looking good sells and with big retailers behind them, they have the money to out compete the mom and pops of the nation. Who wants to shop in a dress shop or book store that may be overcrowded and cluttered when they can shop in a store that is neat, decorated by an interior designer, and aesthetically pleasing? Give a consumer two options of similar pricing and service and that consumer will almost always gravitate to the one which is aesthetically pleasing. The average consumer probably doesn't ask themselves where their money is going to end up at the end of the day and who its benefiting. It could go to the salary of a major corporation's CEO instead of a small business owner in their own local community simply because of aesthetic.
With Black Friday approaching, this is something that we should try to keep in mind as we begin our Christmas shopping. The idea of checking out my own area's local mom and pop shops really appeals to me this season. It reminds me of the connection I felt whenever I pumped a customer's gas and washed their windshield. They loved meeting the person behind the business and I loved meeting them. It's a good feeling. This Christmas, I want to feel that again but, this time, it's me that is going to be the customer.
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