The counter that runs on a laminated card

At a dry cleaner in Agouza, the young man behind the counter reads from a laminated card. Shirt, this price. Suit, that price. Ready on Thursday. Ask him whether the mark on your collar will come out and he looks at the card, and the card has nothing to say.

Two streets away, an older man takes the same shirt, turns the collar to the light, rubs it between thumb and finger, and tells you plainly that one stain will go and the other will not. He chooses the solvent. He tells you to come back if it is not right. He clearly likes his work.

The first counter was built that way on purpose. Somebody decided that a person making judgements is a risk, so the judgement was taken out and printed on a card. Fewer mistakes, fewer surprises, and a man who can be replaced on a Monday by anyone who can read.

The cost lands on him first. Take away every decision and every result he could call his own, and a working day becomes a stretch of minutes to be counted. Most of us have had a job like that once and remember exactly how slowly the clock moved.

The bigger cost lands on the business. A counter that runs on a card can be copied by anyone with a laminator. Once the human part is gone, price is the only thing left to compete on, and somebody will always be cheaper.

The older man is not cheaper, and he is not flawless. Some days he guesses wrong. But he notices things, offers more than he was asked, and does it his own way. He is the reason people drive across two neighbourhoods with a bag of shirts.