The only piece of significant jewelry I own is a necklace from a world-famous American jeweler. No matter how low my bank balance dwindles, its quiet glamour around my neck links me to a world of opulence, all trussed up in a blue box and satin ribbon.
The first time it broke, I took it back to the fancy store still feeling the warm afterglow of luxury consumption. I expected them to fix it or replace it and apologize profusely. That didn't happen.
The saleswoman looked at me as though I had plopped a toad onto her velvet pad. I was wearing a nice suit, using my best manners, and speaking excellent Japanese. I was also eight months pregnant. That's probably why they eventually did agree to fix the necklace for free; they were reasonably worried I might give birth on their very fancy carpet.
Two years later, I was back. This time they wanted Y10,000 to fix it, and six weeks. I explained that the chain had simply snapped, with no tugging or pulling, in the exact same spot as before. It must be a quality issue. They've built their empire on the myth that their products are heirloom pieces to be handed down from generation to generation; don't their baubles come with a guarantee? Oh no, I was assured. Absolutely not. I plunked down my shoddy, expensive necklace, a wad of cash to get it back in working order, and nearly forty demoralizing minutes of my time.
I was peeved, but I had a long necklace of errands to run that day, a whole rosary of things to get repaired. So I fumed my way to the discount optical store across the street. Several years earlier, I had purchased a pair of glasses there for less than the price of a good meal. These trusty specs had stayed unscratched and gleaming through motherhood-related adventures like being dropped into bathwater and put into the refrigerator. They were defeated only when my toddler actually stepped on them.
I sheepishly told the salesman that I was there for a repair. He greeted me warmly, took me to an armchair, and brought me a cup of hot green tea. He took the wildly twisted glasses with a look of concern. "Madam, I have to warn you, if we cannot repair these in-house, we may have to send them to the factory, and then the repair may take quite a while, perhaps as long as a week. I'm so sorry."
He disappeared with the glasses, saying he would see what he could do. I sat quietly and sipped my tea. In less than ten minutes, he returned triumphantly.
"Madam, we have fixed and polished your glasses for you." He adjusted them to my face, tweaking the fit.
I was overjoyed. "How much will that be?" I had my purse ready.
"Oh no, it's our pleasure. All our products come with a lifetime guarantee."
He wouldn't take my money. He acted as though it were his whole purpose to help me that day, valued customer that I was. I was so touched that my eyes prickled.
This is a minor Japanese company that has simple storefronts in unglamorous locations all around Tokyo and prints its advertising flyers on cheap, rough paper. They have my eternal loyalty, and the big international brand has my fervent ire. Fortunes spent on glossy ads won't woo back this unhappy customer. The fancy jeweler could take some lessons from its modest neighbor: green tea is cheap, but loyalty is priceless.
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