I could greet like a golden retriever and chat like a talk-show host. Then, at the exact moment money was about to change hands, I'd lose my nerve.
My first retail job, aged sixteen I was, by any reasonable measure, delightful. Customers told me their weekend plans, their dog's name, the latest instalment of their sister's divorce. Then they left empty-handed, thanking me warmly on the way out. In retail, that's a first date that ends with "You've got such a lovely personality." Lovely. Personality. No close, no second date.
Greeting, fine. Rapport, passable to strong. Closing, the bit where a nice chat becomes a sale, was where I fell apart.
Closing is the pinch point. It's where the dollars are won or lost. You can have the warmest welcome on the street and still go home with an empty till.
So, in the spirit of public service and mild humiliation, here are my crimes. Each comes with the fix I wish someone had handed me.
Confession one: I never actually asked
I'd do everything right up to the edge, then stop. It suits you. It's on sale. It goes with everything. Then I'd stand there smiling, waiting for them to buy it all by themselves, like a waiter who describes the specials beautifully and then, just as you're about to order, leans in to whisper that the fish is "a bit iffy today, to be honest."
Here's the odd thing: customers quite like being asked. Deciding is hard work, and announcing you've decided is strangely awkward. A simple question takes that weight off them.
The fix: ask, plainly. "Shall I pop that up at the counter for you?" In your head it sounds pushy. Out loud, it sounds like brilliant service.
Confession two: I sold it, then unsold it
My finest work. Customer: "Yeah, I think I'll get it." Me, Labrador tail wagging furiously: "Amazing! It also comes in green, and it'd look great with boots, or actually trainers. Although, full disclosure, it is a bit pricey. And it runs small. Honestly, the cheaper one's basically the same, and there's absolutely no need to decide today..."
By the time I drew breath, they were wondering whether they wanted it at all. I'd sold the jacket and then, with firm dedication, unsold it. I wasn't selling the shop, I was apologising for it. The price. The fit. And if the person selling it doesn't think it's worth the money, why on earth would the person buying it?
For the love of all things good, stop selling past the close.
The fix: when you hear yes, stop. Smile, say "great choice", walk to the counter, and let the price sit there without a cushion. The upsell gets its turn once the first yes is safely in the bank.
Confession three: "I'll go have a think"
Five of the most expensive words in retail. I'd wave them off with a cheery "No pressure! Take all the time you need!", like a Labrador watching the family car pull out of the driveway, utterly convinced they'll be back in five minutes.
The fix: "I'll have a think" usually means "something's bugging me and I'm too polite to say". So ask. "Totally fair. Is it the price, the fit, or just not sure yet?" Often you can sort it in thirty seconds.
What I eventually worked out
Most bad closers aren't lazy or rude. They're kind people terrified of seeming pushy. Fix the fear and the skill turns up.
Closing is the C in GMCU: Greet, Meet, Close, Upsell. It's where the money is won or lost, and it's the easiest moment to coach, once someone's actually watching.
So if your team are all delightful and your conversion is flat, I'd wager a few of them are Labradors wagging their tails at the customer and waiting for them to close the sale themselves. Bless them. Good intentions, terrible closers.
