What's the camera for?

The great Vietnamese LUSH experience

Mar 28, 2024

I turn the corner and immediately locate the Lush store sign, its black-and-white simplicity setting it apart from the aggressive colours and bright lights of Myeongdong’s other shopfronts that began their coordinated assault the moment I stepped foot inside Seoul’s famous shopping district.

I don’t use Lush products myself, but my partner is fond of their bath bombs and I’ve been tasked with splurging on some during my two weeks in Seoul, there being no Lush stores in Ho Chi Minh City that we know of.

I hover by the threshold of the Lush Myeongdong store, overwhelmed by the abundance of artfully-arrayed products awaiting my viewing pleasure. But I don’t get to hesitate for long because within five seconds a young, handsome Korean staff beckons me inside.

“Hi! How can I help you today?”

Rather than drowning myself in the sea of unfamiliar products, I opt to put my fate in his hands: “I’m looking for bath bombs.”

“Of course, right this way!”

The staff member who could easily pass for a K-pop singer walks me up to the second floor, leads me to the impressive bath bomb display, begins his pitch.

“We have bombs for moisturising baths and bubble baths. What are you after today?”

“Hmm… not sure. But I do know I want something citrussy, herby, and woody,” I parrot my partner’s instructions at the staff.

“Of course! Here’s a couple of citrussy ones for moisturising and bubble baths—exact same scent! And for herby we have…”

Five minutes later, my basket is full of “citrussy, herby, and woody” bath bombs for my partner. With the staff’s expert guidance, I’ve even chosen for myself two lavender-scented bombs—one moisturising, one bubbly—momentarily forgetting that I don’t actually like taking baths.

And the staff’s not finished. As he’s gently washing the sparkles from the bath bombs off my right hand (he has such soft hands), he lathers on various exotic conditioning products and casually extols their virtues in accented but flawless English. I lap up every word.

“Feel how soft your hand is.” He carefully dabs my right hand dry and returns it to me.

“Wow. So much softer!” My right hand feels a million dollars.

I end up buying a large tub of body conditioner that costs more than any shower product I’ve ever laid eyes on. But I don’t feel ripped off. I feel pampered, sated, blessed.

Meanwhile, in Vietnam…

“Honey, there’s a Lush store in HCMC!”

“Really?” My partner looked up from his book.

“Yep, here!” I showed him the Google Map location for a Lush store in the middle of town. I’d heard rumours of an official store opening for weeks, but this was the first reputable piece of evidence I had of its existence.

Excited for a repeat of my Seoul experience, I suggested we drop by for a visit. My partner readily agreed, not because he shared my eagerness for hand-fondling by strangers, but because he was out of bath bombs—our Seoul cache was long gone.

And so, the following Saturday, we found ourselves marching around a downtown mall looking for the Lush store. This being a typical maze-like Vietnamese mall, it took some time. But finally we located the store on a lower floor.

As we approached, I noticed a staff member who had what looked like a film camera slung around her neck standing just outside. She wasn’t wearing a uniform or name tag, but the way she was firmly planted by the entrance suggested she worked for Lush. What’s the camera for? I wondered.

The high hopes I had for a warm, enthusiastic welcome—akin to the one I received from the Myeongdong store—were dashed as soon as we walked by the staff with the camera to enter the store. We must have passed within a metre of her, but there was no greeting, no nod, no smile—not even a glance.

My partner and I exchanged knowing looks. After years in Vietnam, we were no strangers to the “non-responsive” breed of local staff—the waiters whose eyes you could never catch no matter how frantically you wave, the shop attendants whose sole mission in life is to not look at you lest they catch a deadly disease.

We entered the store and, like in Seoul, I was met by an overwhelming display of colourful products, but with the added challenge of most of the labels being in Vietnamese. My partner and I hovered for a while, but despite the store being almost empty, no staff came forward to offer their assistance.

For five minutes my partner and I roamed the small store, looking at this and that, sniffing bath bombs and comparing prices. In all that time, two female staff members stood by the cashier chatting and showing each other who-knows-what on their phones. Not once did they acknowledge us and two other Vietnamese customers also idly browsing.

Determined to give my hand a pampering session, I tried out some of the liquid soaps they had testers for. But picking a scent at random and massaging my own hand under a faulty tap was a far cry from the heavenly experience I’d enjoyed in Seoul.

My partner and I left without buying anything. We tacitly agreed never to go back.

What’s the camera for?

I don’t know what went wrong in the opening of Lush’s first official store in HCMC. Neglectful management, subpar training, lazy hiring—any number of factors could explain that disaster of a store.

On our taxi ride home that day, I asked my partner if he could guess what the staff’s film camera was for. No idea, he said. Maybe she’s supposed to take pictures of customers coming into the store? I offered. He shrugged.

Since we don’t plan ever to go back, the mystery of what that camera is for is one we’ll never solve. Which I can live with. But this all too common experience also raised other questions which I’m keen to have answered:

Why would a shop assistant rather spend their days chatting with colleagues, looking at their phones, and/or staring into space? Do they not get bored? Wouldn’t it be more fun/fulfilling for them to interact with customers?
When people don’t do the job they’re paid to do, do they feel bad about it? Is there a sliver of guilt, embarrassment, shame? Does it not matter? Or do they actually feel good that they’re being paid for doing nothing?
What can business owners do to ensure their staff aren’t shirking their duties? What sort of training, incentives, penalties would make my Lush store experience the exception rather than the norm?
And more questions on how to find diamonds when hiring, how to effectively supervise, how long to tolerate mediocrity for, etc.

With my layman’s understanding of organisational psychology, I’m far from equipped to answer these questions. And as a newcomer to Vietnam, I also have limited insights on how organisational dynamics play out here beyond my already-stated, surface-level observations.

Which is why I’m turning to you…

What do you think?

If you have any thoughts on any of my questions above, I’m all ears. It doesn’t matter whether you live in Vietnam or the US, whether you’re an organisational psychologist or a dentist—all opinions are welcome.

But if, like me, you’re short of ideas, then maybe just help me figure this out:

What’s the camera at the Lush store for?

Is it for taking pictures or simply ornamental? Perhaps the woman isn’t actually a staff member and just happens to be waiting for a friend for the entirety of our visit? (She was still there, immobile and unresponsive, when we left.) Maybe this is all a simple misunderstanding and this whole newsletter is misguided? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with someone who always does their job well.