Today I bought a tub of baby wipes to have in the car for the three boybarians I drive around. Yesterday one of them used every wipe, tissue and napkin in the glove compartment after spilling the milky remainders of dunked Oreos all over the middle console.
I paid a little more for the chlorine-free wipes from Seventh Generation. The only chlorine I want on my kids is of the swimming pool variety, only because the thought of what could get on them in the absence of chlorine is too disgusting to think about. And there's the inherent promise by Seventh Generation to be as gentle on the planet as they are on people. That's worth something to me. If you've been anywhere on this earth, even your own backyard, and you've been awestruck, then that promise is worth something.
The tub came shrink-wrapped in plastic. I didn't think twice about it. I prefer my wipes to be untouched by human hands except the grubby little ones I hold so dear. When I opened the tub and saw the wipes encased in a plastic bag, actually I didn't think much about that either. My immediate thought was they're not going to be dried out. But then I was greeted by the following message printed on the outside of the bag. "We apologize for the temporary use of this additional packaging in our baby wipes tub. We are in the process of adding a new production line which will correct this situation shortly. Questions: www.seventhgeneration.com, Consumer Relations ph. 800-456-1191."
This is what I call keeping a promise, a promise they took more seriously than I did. So seriously that they're taking extraordinary measures to keep it. Seth Godin says New Marketing is about fashion and stories and permission and promises. There's your example of a promise made and kept.
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