We're out of toothpaste
I hate buying toothpaste.
I hate it almost as much as I hate buying clothes.
It's unclear to me how I am supposed to select the best offering, because, unlike other things I buy, the qualities that distinguish one outfit or one toothpaste from the next are subjective if not outright specious.
Come to think of it, I hate buying toothpaste even more than I hate buying shoes.
Shoe shopping should not be torture, but it is. When I want to replace a comfortable pair that have served me well, I often find I cannot, because they have gone out of style. Why a shoe that was fit-for-purpose would ever be displaced by a new model that lacked quantitative performance improvements is beyond me, but such is the life of the shoe. And toothpaste.
Have you been to the toothpaste aisle recently?
As a responsible (i.e. male) shopper who always knows exactly what to buy, where to buy it, and how much to pay for it, so I can get it and leave the store immediately, it offends me that I waste ten minutes of my life deciphering the merits of goo each time I need to buy toothpaste. Whatever happened to the red box of Colgate? Now there are 20 variants of the stuff.
Apparently, I am not the only one who is frustrated by the profusion of dental creams.
The Wall Street Journal recently summmarized the challenges of marketing toothpaste. Since 93% of Americans use toothpaste, and it is difficult to differentiate a commodity, manufacturers can't increase sales by recruiting more customers. Instead, they have to introduce pricey product extensions. This tactic is starting to backfire, for consumers are confused by the 352 types of toothpaste on offer, and marketing messages are getting lost in the maelstrom. (The article left me wondering: is toothpaste the new beer? And how do the other 7% of Americans clean their teeth?)
With China's booming consumer economy, the toothpaste tsunami has arrived here, too. All the major brands from home offer a mind-numbing array of choices. The added challenge for me is that the writing on the boxes is in Chinese, so I have no idea what this Crest does that that Crest doesn't. I am also flummoxed by the price differences: Why is this tube only 12 kuai (two breakfasts with coffee at McDonald's), while that tube is 50 kuai (a two-four of Yangjing beer)?
My fail-safe grocery shopping tactic doesn't seem to work with toothpaste: The pictures on the box don’t give me any clues about what might be inside. What does a rainbow floating over a toothbrush mean? What does a mist of crystal diamond clipart in a bead of paste tell me of its properties?
I hate buying toothpaste.
But I think I may have solved my problem. I'll just keep buying Darlie, my favourite novelty brand of toothpaste. I call it a novelty, but apparently it is one of Colgate-Palmolive Corporation’s more popular brands here in Asia.
I first saw Darlie when I visited Hong Kong in 1988. I was immediately drawn to the dapper Fred Astaire character with the big white teeth, and when I saw the product's tag line – 黑人牙膏 (hēi rén yá gāo), black people's toothpaste – well, I was sold. But the story got better: Nancy told me that when she was a girl, the product’s name was spelt with a 'K' in place of the 'L', a story borne out by wikipedia.
Fast forward to Beijing.
Santa somehow knew that Darkie – uh, I mean Darlie – would appeal to my sense of political correctness, for he left a tube in my stocking last Christmas.
I have used the product and am quite happy with it, and, now that I need to restock, I think I’ll buy another tube. Besides, the toothpaste's few properties are written in both Chinese and English, so I won’t have to scratch my head when making a purchase.
I have to admit, though, I haven't visited the dentist for a year now. I sure hope this stuff works.
© 2011 K W Hadley
We're out of toothpaste
I hate buying toothpaste.
I hate it almost as much as I hate buying clothes.
It's unclear to me how I am supposed to select the best offering, because, unlike other things I buy, the qualities that distinguish one outfit or one toothpaste from the next are subjective if not outright specious.
Come to think of it, I hate buying toothpaste even more than I hate buying shoes.
Shoe shopping should not be torture, but it is. When I want to replace a comfortable pair that have served me well, I often find I cannot, because they have gone out of style. Why a shoe that was fit-for-purpose would ever be displaced by a new model that lacked quantitative performance improvements is beyond me, but such is the life of the shoe. And toothpaste.
Have you been to the toothpaste aisle recently?
As a responsible (i.e. male) shopper who always knows exactly what to buy, where to buy it, and how much to pay for it, so I can get it and leave the store immediately, it offends me that I waste ten minutes of my life deciphering the merits of goo each time I need to buy toothpaste. Whatever happened to the red box of Colgate? Now there are 20 variants of the stuff.
Apparently, I am not the only one who is frustrated by the profusion of dental creams.
The Wall Street Journal recently summmarized the challenges of marketing toothpaste. Since 93% of Americans use toothpaste, and it is difficult to differentiate a commodity, manufacturers can't increase sales by recruiting more customers. Instead, they have to introduce pricey product extensions. This tactic is starting to backfire, for consumers are confused by the 352 types of toothpaste on offer, and marketing messages are getting lost in the maelstrom. (The article left me wondering: is toothpaste the new beer? And how do the other 7% of Americans clean their teeth?)
With China's booming consumer economy, the toothpaste tsunami has arrived here, too. All the major brands from home offer a mind-numbing array of choices. The added challenge for me is that the writing on the boxes is in Chinese, so I have no idea what this Crest does that that Crest doesn't. I am also flummoxed by the price differences: Why is this tube only 12 kuai (two breakfasts with coffee at McDonald's), while that tube is 50 kuai (a two-four of Yangjing beer)?
My fail-safe grocery shopping tactic doesn't seem to work with toothpaste: The pictures on the box don’t give me any clues about what might be inside. What does a rainbow floating over a toothbrush mean? What does a mist of crystal diamond clipart in a bead of paste tell me of its properties?
I hate buying toothpaste.
But I think I may have solved my problem. I'll just keep buying Darlie, my favourite novelty brand of toothpaste. I call it a novelty, but apparently it is one of Colgate-Palmolive Corporation’s more popular brands here in Asia.
I first saw Darlie when I visited Hong Kong in 1988. I was immediately drawn to the dapper Fred Astaire character with the big white teeth, and when I saw the product's tag line – 黑人牙膏 (hēi rén yá gāo), black people's toothpaste – well, I was sold. But the story got better: Nancy told me that when she was a girl, the product’s name was spelt with a 'K' in place of the 'L', a story borne out by wikipedia.
Fast forward to Beijing.
Santa somehow knew that Darkie – uh, I mean Darlie – would appeal to my sense of political correctness, for he left a tube in my stocking last Christmas.
I have used the product and am quite happy with it, and, now that I need to restock, I think I’ll buy another tube. Besides, the toothpaste's few properties are written in both Chinese and English, so I won’t have to scratch my head when making a purchase.
I have to admit, though, I haven't visited the dentist for a year now. I sure hope this stuff works.
© 2011 K W Hadley