The kite they finished themselves

On the seafront in Port Said, a man sells kites from a bicycle. Some hang ready to fly, bright and finished. The others come as a bundle: two thin sticks, a sheet of coloured paper, a reel of string and a small pot of glue.

The finished ones should sell better. They are quicker, neater and they work the first time. And yet the children keep pointing at the bundles.

Watch a family with one of them. The father holds the sticks in a cross while his daughter ties the knot. Her brother cuts the tail from an old plastic bag. The paper goes on a little crooked. It takes most of an hour, and when it finally lifts off the sand, nobody in that family would trade it for the perfect one hanging on the bicycle.

It is tempting to think the job of a product is to remove every bit of effort from the person buying it. Often it is. But there is a kind of effort people do not want removed, because it is the part that lets them feel they made something, cared for someone, earned the result.

A notebook with a blank first page for the owner's name. A gift box with room for a handwritten card. A plant sold as a cutting, to be potted at home. None of these steps is necessary. Each of them changes how the thing feels once it is done.

The question worth asking is not only how much work can be taken away from the customer. It is which small part of the work they would miss if it were gone.

The child does not remember the kite. She remembers the knot she tied, and the kite is hers because of it.