Humanity vs. Customer Service

Modern humans no longer battle the forces of nature.

We battle customer service.

Not physically. Not dramatically. But slowly. Administratively. Like an animal dying in a net woven from automated phone systems and passive-aggressive template replies.

Years ago, I called my insurance company after an accident.

The man on the other end laughed out loud and asked,

"Do you even know what kind of insurance you've got?"

Then he hung up.

To this day, it remains the most honest customer service experience I've ever had.

Because, let's be honest:

Nobody knows what insurance they actually have.

We wander through life carrying sixty different contracts, subscriptions and agreements that we've nodded along to simply because modern society has become too complicated for anyone to fully understand.

Internet?

Probably.

Electricity?

I think so.

Insurance?

Hopefully.

Perhaps that's why waiting in a customer service queue feels strangely personal.

Few things erode human dignity faster than hearing,

"You are... number... eighteen... in the queue."

No thanks.

At that point, the house can just burn down.

I have an exceptionally low tolerance for phone queues. Five minutes is about my limit before I begin fantasising about moving into the forest and communicating exclusively through campfires and hand signals.

And the music.

The same eight-second jazz loop playing over and over, as though the company is trying to tenderise you psychologically before someone finally answers.

The fascinating thing is that companies always reassure you,

"We're doing everything we can."

Are you?

Because from where I'm standing, it looks as though you've staffed the entire Nordic region with three exhausted employees and a chatbot that was switched on for the very first time yesterday evening.

The chatbots deserve a chapter of their own.

I have yet to encounter one that actually solves my problem. Most behave like confused goldfish with corporate branding.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand your question."

Neither do I anymore.

That's why I'm contacting you.

And yet, I sometimes catch myself trying to reason with them, as though I'm trapped in some kind of digital hostage negotiation.

"Hello. I'd simply like to change my billing address."

"Did you mean: upgrade your subscription?"

"No."

"That's wonderful!"

It's remarkable how quickly otherwise rational adults find themselves arguing with text bubbles.

The Last Human Shortcut

The truth is, I actually feel a little sorry for customer service employees.

On the other side of the conversation are ordinary people with rent to pay, migraines to manage, relationships that may or may not be falling apart and sandwiches that are already getting cold. Nobody grows up dreaming of spending their working life explaining administrative fees to angry strangers wearing Bluetooth headsets.

Customer service has also become less human over the years.

There is less flexibility now.

Less discretion.

Less room for someone to simply say,

"You know what? I'll fix it."

Many employees have become little more than biological intermediaries between you and a computer system that has already decided you should suffer just a little longer.

Which brings us to the first hack.

Don't be an asshole.

It's genuinely the most effective strategy.

Many people assume customer service is about dominance—that you have to sound firm, aggressive and intimidating.

They're wrong.

The true masters of customer service speak calmly. A little tired. A little human. Like someone who has also forgotten passwords, cried over electricity bills and spent half an hour on hold while the pasta boiled over.

People help people they like.

It may be the last unofficial rule left in the entire system.

The second hack is even simpler.

Use silence.

It works surprisingly well.

If you receive an absurd answer, don't become angry immediately. Just remain silent for a few seconds longer than feels natural.

Customer service representatives are trained to handle anger.

They're rarely trained to handle disappointed silence.

After four or five uncomfortable seconds, something curious often happens. A small human panic seems to appear, and suddenly they begin trying to solve your problem for real.

Of course, the darkest art of modern customer service is the cancellation strategy.

If you truly want to watch a company behave like an ex who suddenly regrets everything, cancel your subscription.

That's when the magic begins.

Out of nowhere, someone from the so-called Winback Team calls—a department whose name sounds less like customer retention and more like a NATO special operations unit for emotional emergencies.

"Hello... we were just wondering if everything is alright."

Yes.

Funny how life suddenly becomes manageable again once you're offering me six months free of charge.

The secret is never to sound too interested.

You have to become a romantic mystery.

"Well... I'm not really sure... maybe I'll think about coming back..."

Three minutes later you've got premium sports channels, a lower monthly fee and HBO included until the end of the year.

This is no longer customer service.

It's psychological street trading.

Hope Never Disconnects

Perhaps that's why modern life leaves so many people feeling exhausted.

Not necessarily because life itself has become harder.

But because we spend so much of it negotiating our own existence with companies that would happily automate humanity out of the process before the end of the next financial quarter.

Still, we keep trying.

We wait in line.

We write emails.

We explain the same problem to six different people.

We're told that our case has been forwarded.

We reply, "Thank you for your help," even when, objectively speaking, no help was ever provided.

Because somewhere deep down, hope survives.

The hope that the next person who answers will finally be able to solve the problem.

Or, at the very least...

...won't laugh at us before hanging up.