G-SPOT: I am not a loyal customer, more so if you collect data

For those wondering what biscuits have to do with anything in this context, cookies in the digital world are small text files that websites store on your device to remember information about you and your browsing habits.

As it stands, modern digital life means my personal data is already lodged in far too many databases, so whenever I can reduce that footprint, I do.

The other day, while visiting a shop that sells spectacles and accessories such as lens wipes, I became a little irritated when the sales assistant asked for my name and telephone number in order to enter me into their customer database.

I told him that I had never bought glasses from this retailer before, and if buying spectacle wipes was enough to warrant inclusion in their system, then perhaps I did not wish to shop there at all. I can buy those wipes at any halfway-decent pharmacy and do not require reminders to return and make further purchases.

I requested to be removed from their database under the provisions of the Data Protection Act. The assistant seemed slightly taken aback by the firmness of my request, but to his credit, he complied. Even so, I doubt I shall be darkening their doorway again any time soon.

I do tolerate supermarkets requesting personal details, as I make use of their loyalty schemes, which can be handy when it comes to special offers and the like.

Truth be told, I am not a loyal customer. If you are a retailer or supplier of goods or services, please do not take it personally. However, if, like the aforementioned retailer, you attempt to force the issue, then it might well become personal.

I have written previously about my willingness, unlike many people I know, to switch barbers at the drop of a hat. Of course, some might question why, with only a fifth of my original hair still clinging on, I bother visiting a barber at all.

The answer to that slightly cheeky question, which I have been asked more times than I care to count, can be summed up in a single word: vanity. Now that you know, has the number of sufurias of ugali in your household increased?

My father also experienced hair loss, although his receding follicles did so at a much more leisurely pace than mine. Nonetheless, he too visited the barber regularly, and as a boy, I accompanied him to whichever barbershop he favoured in the River Road district.

After I started earning my own income, I continued patronising the same barbershop for a while before switching allegiance to one closer to the part of the CBD where I worked, still within the broader River Road neighbourhood.

Not long after, a stylish colleague and friend suggested I try his hair stylist, who, if memory serves, was called Franco. This gentleman was no ordinary barber. His salon, and indeed his prices, were quite literally a floor above the rest in that area.

It was this tonsorial artist who, as gently as possible, broke the news that my once-full head of hair was beginning to thin. On my next visit, I happened to pass a barbershop where one of the stylists was touting for clients at the door.

Out of curiosity, I stepped inside and decided to take a chance and let this barber, wielding a straight razor, shave my entire head.

He did such an impressive job that I remained a loyal client for years, until the shop relocated to Highridge, an area inconvenient for me as I was still based in the CBD. 

I then found new barbers in town, but whenever time allowed, I made the trek to Highridge, where I discovered even more skilled barbers adept with the cut-throat razor, and so began to spread my patronage accordingly.

To cut a long story short, I will frequent whichever barbershop is most convenient at any given moment. The same principle applies to butchers, bakers, greengrocers, kiosks, mitumba vendors and optometrists, but go easy on the personal data collection.