Marketing to Women 101

Frock sales at the old Bridal Barn have slowed down considerably. We're in that season in between seasons. The majority of the brides getting married this summer or fall have already purchased their gowns and those with 2010 dates aren't quite ready to buy. We are working on the "pebbles and sand" sales as my boss likes to call them. You know, those little sales that are suppose to add up, i.e. veils, slips, shoes, bustiers and tiaras. Tiaras. Now there's a purchase every girl needs to make. Matter of a fact, we should bring the tiara back and just wear them around town with our street clothes. Wouldn't that make us all feel like princesses? Personally, I think my head was made for a tiara. Ask any of my five brothers and I'm sure they would agree.

In an effort to boost sales for the meager number of brides-to-be that do walk through our doors, I thought I'd do some research on what makes people, i.e. women, buy.

My boss advised me to always ask three personal questions about themselves. I do!

1. What kind of work do you do? (Gives me ideas about my own possible career change and network in the process.)
2. Where did you meet your fiance? (Gives me some ideas about where to meet men in this town!)
3. Where are you going on your honeymoon? (Also, gives me some ideas about where to plan my next vacation when I find myself, yet again, between jobs and needing to "get away from it all.")

During my internet search on marketing to women I found dozens of books available on the subject, but none that would just give me the answers I was looking for with a few clicks of my fingers. I'd have to actually march down to the book store and peruse the aisles and do the research. I just really don't have that kind of time. I keep searching.

I find out realtors use tricks like the smell of home baked cookies, a coat of fresh paint, and bouquets of flowers to make a home feel warm and cozy and a potential buyer eager to make an offer. The scent most appealing to men is, apparently, vanilla, so you'll find a hint of vanilla fragrance in many perfumes and lotions on the market today.

I learn some of the most marketable gifts for Valentine's Day are champagne, chocolate and flowers. Unfortunately, we don't have a liquor license down at the Frock Shop, but the other two are options. So last Saturday on my way to work, I picked up a bouquet of soft pink tulips (there is some positive mumbo jumbo with the color pink, but I can't remember now what it is) and chocolates (dark chocolate - it's a health food nowadays) placed in a pretty candy dish my mother left me.

What was the outcome? Well, within my last four days at work I sold one wedding gown, one pair of shoes, the flowers are now wilted and the chocolates are gone.

I read somewhere that techniques such as building trust and rapport, telling personal, yet positive stories, and creating a connection might also work. Sure, they'll work. Over a glass of champagne.

Mrs. F#$@ing Rockefeller

What is it about being unemployed that makes a girl want to shop? One friend says it's all the time on my hands. That's possible. When I was working, full-time, all the way out in the the suburbs of Ballard, I had no time to go shopping. All the stores in Ballard close at 6.00 p.m. and I wasn't usually finished with work much before then. If I was, I was on a mission to get to yoga by six, so would quickly by-pass any interesting shops, head straight home to change and run to my class ready for Zen mode. Now I go to yoga at noon. I've got the whole day to myself.

Getting downtown during the past ten months was actually quite rare. Weekends were packed with other activities and shopping was never on the top of the list. I don't even like shopping. I'm not one of those woman who craves the latest fashions. I don't need retail therapy to get me through a rough day. I'm actually a bit of a cheapskate and find it difficult to part with my hard-earned meager funds. My usual MO is to walk around the store with an item I actually do need and then put it back on the rack and walk out empty handed because I talk myself out of needing it at all. At least for the moment.

So what is going on with me recently? I seem to be spending money like I'm Mrs. F#$@ing Rockefeller. That is, spending money like I have it! First, I book a trip to Vietnam just before quitting my job. Then while job hunting, I book a flight to San Diego to visit friends. As if that isn't enough spending, lately I keep finding myself in downtown shops 'browsing.' What am I doing in these shops at all? My shops are Crossroads Trading Post, Goodwill, Value Village and Take 2 Consignment, not my old haunts of Ann Taylor and Banana Republic. Haunts I visited back in the day, when I was a corporate climber, working for the man, earning the corporate dollar. No, the new me does not patronize these shops any longer. So why, pray tell, am I in there today? The sales got to me! A top for $14.00 and jeans (that fit perfectly!) for $40 at Ann Taylor Loft. How could I say no? I couldn't. I didn't. And I didn't stop there. I sauntered over to BR just to look at jackets. I just wanted to look. Maybe try one or two on. That's all. Nothing more. But once in there, I found one on sale that fit perfectly. I couldn't force myself to put it back on the rack. As I was leaving the store (with an application for employment in my bag) a co-unemployed friend called to see if I wanted to meet for happy hour. You bet. Why stop now? I'm Mrs. F#$@ing Rockefeller today.

Makeup Makeover Trauma

I'm not a huge shopper. I used to be. When I made a decent living and could afford to do more than just window shop. Besides, to be honest there is just not that much I really need. I dress Seattle 'business casual' at work. I don't even need to dress that nicely if I don't choose to. It's a two man office these days and customers don't pop in, so jeans are just fine. But even so, I like to look presentable. I think the casual dress in this town can go too far sometimes. And even if a girl doesn't need much, it's still nice to get a little something new once in awhile.

In preparing for my upcoming vacation, I took stock of my warm weather wardrobe to see what I had from years past. What is still in style (luckily most of it since we're in an 'everything goes' fashion mode these days), what is still in tact (you know how it is, you put something away the last time you wore it back in late August and it had a stain on it, now it's set in for good), and what still fits. Ahhh....the trickier issue. I spent my Saturday evening trying on several outfits all the time sucking my gut in until I was exhausted and couldn't take it anymore. I put everything back in the closet and went downtown today (after my Russian Natalia Nazi Cardio/Body Sculpt Blast, of course!).

First stop, mascara. Harmless purchase. Didn't involve taking off my clothes. That's a good start to my shopping experience. Or so I thought. I go to the Lancome counter to get my usual waterproof mascara. Should only take a second. I know exactly what I want. No muss no fuss. In and out, right? As one salesgirl (or are they called "makeup specialists" these days?) retreats to go find my particular mascara, another one approaches me and advises that if I buy one more item, I get a "gift." Funny, how I'm immediately sucked into the idea of getting something for free. How old am I?

Since I'm still waiting for my mascara girl to return anyway, the other gal starts showing me some lip liners. Yes, I just ran out. I could use a new lip liner. Of course, I can. She proceeds to apply a nice berry something or other liner. It looks nice. But now the rest of my face needs something. She asks if she can put some eyeliner on my eyes too. I thought I had liner on my eyes already (I'm feeling a little insulted here). Silly me. Before I can say much of anything, she's got my head tilted back in a professional wrestler's headlock, coaching me to "look up, look to the side, don't move a muscle, keep your eyes open, don't flinch" while she is jabbing at me with a sharpened black pencil! I can feel my eyes fluttering and watering and I'm doing everything I can not to shove her off of me sending her sailing across the entire length of the department store. Am I at the makeup counter or the dentist?

Once she's adequately applied the liner on both my upper and lower lids, she decides my tinted moisturizer from Aveda is just not doing the job (second insult of the day) and slathers some Ecru 230 Natural Finishing Cream all over my face with a paintbrush attempting to cover up all my age spots and other imperfections. She follows this procedure up with a creamy blush that extends down my neck, a glossy coat of something that is suppose to make my 44 year old skin look 18 again, and she head back to my eyes. My eyes were just recovering from her prior attack. Where is that mascara girl by the way? I'm ready to be done with this experiment.

"Oh, I just can't take that awful green," she says. "I should have removed it right away." The "awful" green is the shadow the last girl sold me at the Shiseido counter six months ago, when I just went in to buy one item. Once she was satisfied with the shadow, she came at me with the final touch. The mascara. Again with the head tilt and 'tugging' action at my eye lashes. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't all this pulling and tugging and poking at my very delicate eye area seem a bit abrasive? Aren't we suppose to be treating this area of our face with kit gloves?

When finally finished, she was oh so proud of her work. She handed me a mirror and announced how great my eyes looked. They actually "pop" now. Yeah, they pop. They feel like they are going to pop out of my head. I will admit that some of the work was attractive, but for the most part, I felt like a raccoon with spiders on her eyes. Far too much makeup for me. And all that heavy black...against my green (with bloodshot red) eyes, and light brown eyebrows (how did she miss those?) was just too much.

Off I trotted with my original mascara request, a lip liner, and a gift bag full of samples; one of them being makeup remover. How appropriate!

Next stop, bra fitting. Does the fun ever end?