Live local, work local – that is where happiness is.
Running late for hair appointment in the morning, trying to accomplish a million things after staying up late the night before to catch up what I lost by not working during the weekend, I run into a small, ‘vintage’ looking salon in Alexandria, KY. Rhonda smiles and says: “Great to see you. Hop into the chair and relax a bit”
I could have made an appointment at the other salon where I would have been greeted by a perfect blonde with enhanced body parts in a slick black outfit and manicured nails, who would have looked at me with that pitiful smile that 20-year olds give to the women over 30 who are obviously balancing family, career, personal style (or what’s left of it) and told me to get a glass of lemon water and wait in the white leather lounge while waiting for the almighty computer to decide whether or not I could still be seen by my hair stylist because (here is my favorite line) “the computer won’t let me schedule you even if you think there might be enough time to squeeze you in.”
So Rhonda’s salon doesn’t have internet and I have to email the artwork for a promo piece I need at tonight’s Mom’s meeting (which, in our business of running children’s repertory theatre is of crucial importance).
If I was at the other salon, of course there would be internet, but that’s beside the point.
I call Mike from the local print shop we found through one of our partner’s jobs. He answers the phone personally. I had given him the heads up on the job and he already knows all the details. He even comments that I worked late on Labor Day (the time stamp on my email gave me out). If I get the artwork to him by 2 pm he’ll have it all ready before 5 pm. He’ll pick out the stock for me because he is competent and knows his clients and their budgets.
I could have sent my job off to Kinko’s and gotten some nice, polite kid who would have said: “Let me check if your on line order came through… hmmm I don’t see it… Are you sure you didn’t send it to a different center…” (they always assume I did something wrong… I wonder if that’s on the company policy script they are trained to read from when dealing with customers). I might have lucked out with some competent and cool kid willing to bypass the system and help me out (because it happened in the past), but most likely, they would have told me: “Sorry, the computer won’t let me push you to the front of the line to complete the job on time. And I am sorry, but you’ll have to come in and pick out the stock yourself, because I am not allowed to pick for you.”
Back at Rhonda’s (somewhere between sitting under the drier and rinsing out the highlights) I ordered a take out salad from Bob Evans, but didn’t have a chance to do much more with it but cram it in my bag for later. Rhonda and I talk about our local bank and how understanding and personal they are with their clients: They only own one branch, and all the employees know their clients by first name. They will never ask you for an ID, but will always ask you about how your kids are doing and how life is. They know when a family can’t make a mortgage payment and they make everything possible to work through the difficult situations. They don’t just show up and claim their money. They have a luxury of running a business while being people with heart and soul – precisely why they will always have many loyal clients. And they are not greedy to grow into a mega bank and see their name on the top of the highest tower in town (or arrange a buy out, fire the employees and move to Florida).
When my hair was done, I literally flew out of Rhonda’s salon with 15 minutes to email my job to Mike.
Bob Evans was the closest restaurant and I knew that they offer free WiFi internet (what a concept!) Now, I would have preferred it, for the sake of my story, that it wasn’t Bob Evan’s but Barb and Steve’s Diner, although I am beginning to think that the managers and the staff of Bob Evan’s really believe they work for Barb and Steve.
The hostess immediately dispatched a waitress and a manager to find me an electric outlet (my lap top’s battery was empty) and the best spot on the floor to pick up the signal.
The waitress brought me a cup of tea and a plate for my take-out salad. Then she said: “I’ll leave you alone, but please let me know if I can be of assistance.” She disappeared.
My email to Mike showed a time stamp: 1:59. “Your message has been sent”, I sighed in relief.
The waitress showed up: “Did you make it?”
I could have had an assistant sitting in some leather covered office take care of all of it, while I enjoyed my hair appointment sipping lemon water, but then I would have never known the goodness and kindness of Rhonda, Mike, Barb and Steve and the waitress of Bob Evans on route 27 in Alexandria, KY and what makes them different from the nameless employees with ID numbers they have to give as a part of their greeting.
That’s just one of the stories about why I love living local, working local and knowing that the core of American strength is in supporting local.