What impression does your brand project?  A clear message removes any doubt.

Last Friday afternoon, I’d lost track of time. I was in Montreal’s Old Port, browsing a dimly lit antique boutique, squinting at books stacked in dusty piles, when I sensed her. She wore an exquisite pair of diamond chandelier earrings and a polished ensemble: a black tailored jacket and pants, framed by a creaseless white cotton shirt.

She had that unequivocal, classy, rich-girl look.

She walked towards me, stopped, shrugged her shoulders (as if to apologize), and cautiously squeezed between me and that rack of vintage men’s blazers.

“Not much room in here… is there?” she laughed.

I smiled, lost in her eyes and opulent scent. She smiled warmly. I seized a random book and opened its cover — an admission of guilt.

She strode toward the far wall and those shelves, which housed dozens of antique dolls. I observed from the corner of my eye as her hands gracefully reached up towards a wooden shelf. With precision, she grasped two delicate porcelain figurines — a violinist and a harp player — and gently slipped them into the deep, padded pockets of her jacket. She meandered around and up front to the cash. I turned and followed; I’d found a book worth buying.

The grey-haired gentleman behind the register was as smitten by this enchanting young woman as I was. She waved a slender digit and pointed to a beautiful, feathered peacock hat proudly displayed behind the glass counter.

“How much for that one?”

“That’s a Vintage Fascinator, circa 1940. I can let you have it for $355 plus tax.”

“I’ll take it,” she beamed, without blinking.

We were mesmerized as she modelled it for us, then claimed it with a flash of her card. The hat was carefully placed in a sturdy bandbox, and smiles were painted on everyone’s faces — including mine.

But what about those porcelain figurines?

Had she forgotten about them? I thought of saying something, but before my conscience had resolved the dilemma, she’d waved to us, stepped out the door, and disappeared down the street.

Finally free of her spell, the gentleman behind the counter turned to me. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I want to buy this book, and… I was curious. How much are those porcelain musicians you have at the back?”

“Those two were sculpted by Lladró, in Spain. Very rare. They’re a matched set; the price is $600 for the pair. Did you want to look at them?”

My face turned ashen as I stuttered a reply. “No, no, that’s all right. I’ll just take my book.”

“Ahhh… Hemingway. For Whom the Bell Tolls. Are you a fan of his?”

I tried to think clearly, but my thoughts were interrupted by the phone. The conversation was quick, with a hasty exchange of yeses and nos. The gentleman behind the register looked agitated as he hung up.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“That was Visa. They wanted me to hold the card that the woman just used. It was reported stolen, but they couldn’t stop the transaction in time. I told them she’d left, and I don’t have security cameras.”

I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t have to. Was it my question that had clued him? He looked toward the tall shelves and the empty space where those porcelain dolls had been resting.

“Fuck!” He shouted.

My heart stopped as I absorbed my complicity in her crime.

As we both stood there wordless, the tiny bell above the door jingled — and she walked in, puffing and out of breath.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to pay for these two pieces. And I just spoke with my boyfriend. He thought he’d lost his card, so he reported it stolen. Did my purchase go through?”

Her apologies continued profusely as she pulled another card from her wallet and straightened everything out. When she waved goodbye again, we both exhaled. He turned to me, where he had left off.

“So… Hemingway. This one’s a classic.”

I nodded. I didn’t need to tell him I’d disliked that book in high school. Perhaps my first impressions were wrong, and I’d get a better appreciation for that “classic” with a second read.

Outside in the fresh air, my conscience finally eased its grip. But I wondered: how else could I have played my part?

I often rely on first impressions. Fortunately, I was right.

Or was I being hopeful?

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The Takeaway
A glance can reveal more than a thousand words. First impressions are fleeting: striking ones linger. What impression does your brand project to your audience? A clear message — will remove any doubt.

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