We were hunting for a leather jacket in Istanbul for one of the members of our close-knit group of four friends.
After trying on quite a few jackets and visiting several shops, a well-dressed, white-bearded gentleman in his late sixties greeted us in a bazaar.
He overheard us speaking Hungarian and, in broken Hungarian, the Turkish man greeted us back.
A businessman who spent his New Year’s Eves in Budapest with his wife, he immediately asked what we were looking for. A leather jacket. “Come with me,” he said.
After a few minutes’ walk, we arrived. He swiftly opened his shop, and before we knew it, we were sipping tea while watching our friend try on his third jacket.
And this one was special.
The old man was a true merchant. Not just someone who wanted to sell something, but an artist, elevating the experience to a whole new level. Every movement, every word, and every tactful, curious question felt like a beautifully composed symphony, each note perfectly placed.
He had completely enchanted my friend. He praised his masculine build, his commanding gaze, and how perfectly these matched the leather jacket.
But it wasn’t just flattery—the jacket was exquisite. Finer, of better quality than anything we’d seen before. Yet, my friend hesitated over the price. He didn’t want to pay that much.
Finally, he admitted it. He’d buy it, but it was too expensive.
The old man placed a firm hand on my friend’s shoulder, looked him deeply in the eyes, and, with almost fatherly affection, said softly:
“My friend, this is not expensive.
This is cheap.”
That sentence, which has since become a catchphrase for me, is one of my favorites. I share this story every time I see a client undervalue themselves—when they don’t ask for the price their service or product is truly worth.
As far as I know, my friend still has that jacket.
