Those of you who live in Germany will be familiar with the Weleda brand of toiletry and “wellness” products, even if — especially if you are foreign and/or a man — you are unfamiliar with the conditions they address and the ingredients they boast. Weleda goods can easily be picked out in your local pharmacy — for they occupy precisely that grey, or rather lavender, zone between cosmetics and medicinal products that pharmacies specialize in — through their ethereal pastel colours and the wedgy font used on the packaging. The corporate design — if one may use such a mercenary term in this context – appears to derives from the movement known as Anthroposophy, the partly right-on, partly bonkers philosophy of the late free-thinker Rudolph Steiner.
I’m not sure exactly what the connection is between Weleda and Anthroposophy, but connection there most surely is. Possibly the company was founded by one of Steiner’s disciples in 1929, whose children then made it into the money-making machine it is today, co-opting the New Age trappings to appeal to today’s Pilates-practising, organic food-buying German woman (and I feel I’m not going out on too much of a limb by asserting that the majority of Weleda products are bought by women). There’s certainly something of anthroposophist crank about the macadamia-nut oils and the powdered seaweed bath remedies that the company produces. (There is a widespread German faith in the healing properties of teas and baths, which even practitioners of conventional medicine will prescribe as the cure for anything that does not require major surgery.)
Now, if there’s one stage of life when you’re going to be spending a lot of time with Weleda products, then it’s pregnancy. My wife is currently expecting (Why thank you. End of June. A girl, as far as we know.) and has turned into a major Weleda consumer. Which is fair enough — after all doctors and midwives have been recommending those pastel-coloured goods left right and centre, and the products are indeed of high quality, the German consumer’s grail.
Recently my wife — who is of Indian descent — held an Indian equivalent of a baby shower. In response to several emails from prospective showerers, I made it clear that presents for the baby were considered bad luck within the Indian tradition, and that the mother should be the sole recipient of presents, which should be of the “pampering” variety.
Now, the equation “pregnant” plus “pampering” has only one solution within the German psyche, and so it came as no surprise that S. was bombarded with Weleda products on the day of her party. As the afternoon wore on, the row of little boxes on our living-room table got longer and longer.
There was only one problem, as the post-party inventory of the gifts revealed. Our generous friends, through no fault of their own, had given S. precisely the wrong Weleda products — Wheatgerm Body Scrub, say, rather than the ever-useful Pregnancy Care Oil. Don’t be so churlish, I hear you say. Just be grateful you got anything at all; after all, present-giving is not aimed at the fulfilment of your practical needs.
That’s all very well, I counter, but the fact remains that S. gets through litres of Pregnancy Massage Oil in trying to keep her ever-growing tum supple, and it’s not cheap. So why put up with the wrong Weleda products when one is desperately in need of certain other boxed wellness?
And so it came to pass that I was dispatched to the local shopping centre on a mission to exchange the Weleda gifts at the pharmacy. This made me nervous, because it involved a certain amount of conflict and deceit, both phenomena which I instinctively shy away from. I reassured myself with the thought that the products were in perfect condition and had in all likelihood been purchased in said pharmacy.
As I entered the shop, I rehearsed the cover story which S. had given me. I had bought the products for her myself, but — hapless man as I am — had got the wrong things. Not only that, I — being a hapless man and all — had also managed to misplace the receipt.
For once, there was no long queue, so I went straight up to the counter, fumbling in my rucksack for the twin Weleda products in their plastic Rossmann’s bag. (I had hoped to find a bag from that particular pharmacy, for added authenticity, but had failed.)
I gave my story to the young pharmacist behind the counter, a fresh-faced lass in her mid-twenties, hoping that my obviously non-native German would mask the non-verbal signs of lying. In my favour I had, of course, the fact that Germans seldom lie to each other and therefore are easily deceived.
I finished my tale by explaining that, silly me, I couldn’t find the receipt.
“Oh,” said the pharmacist. “No receipt. That’s going to be difficult.”
Now, to the untrained ear, that might sound like a simple rejection of my request to exchange the products. But the seasoned observer of Germans knows that such a statement is merely the opening salvo in a process of negotiation which could easily turn out to the consumers favour — the Teutonic equivalent of the bazaar merchant’s “You’re offering me 10 dollars for that beautiful carpet, are you trying to ruin me?”
“Well,” I said — and this is by no means the recommended response — “does that mean it’s impossible?”
Clearly she could not give a yes or no answer to that question at this stage, as that would effectively have ended the haggling process. Instead, she contented herself with opening up the boxes and inspecting the contents suspiciously. I was relieved to see the instruction leaflets were still in their virginal position, folded over the top of the bottles. She asked me if the products were unused. “Yes, yes,” I said eagerly, glad to be able to make a true statement.
At this point I was fairly confident that I was home and dry, but the Young Pharmacist had one final line of defence. “Of course, you won’t be able to get your money back without a receipt,” she said. “You’ll have to exchange the goods for something else.”
“Sure, sure, that’s fine,” I said, this having been my objective all along. With that, the Young Pharmacist was forced to concede defeat.
Now the ball was in my court. With everything going so well, I was keen to conclude the transaction as quickly as possible and get out of there before something went wrong. So, instead of looking around the shop for the Weleda products I had been ordered to get in exchange — what if the Young Pharmacist wandered off and I then had to deal with another woman who was less understanding about the no-receipt issue? – I decided to just tell the Young Pharmacist straight out what I needed.
“I’d like some Damm-Massageöl, please.”
The Young Pharmacist looked taken aback, as if I had just asked for Vaginal Massage Oil. Which in fact, I had. (Well, Perineum Massage Oil, if we’re going to be picky, but I feel the word “perineum,” hiding behind its Latinate mask of decency, does not sufficiently convey the essence of “Damm.”)
My lack of embarrassment was partly due to the language barrier — the word “Damm” sounds pretty innocuous to me. In addition, I have recently spent extended periods of time hanging around with midwives, who had stressed the benefits of massaging said Damm as a means of preparing for birth when they weren’t explaining the opening of cervixes in exhaustive detail, which had rendered me entirely comfortable with discussing female anatomy. The Young Pharmacist’s discomfort, it occurred to me, might also have something to do with the fact I had perhaps not made it sufficiently clear that I was getting products on behalf of my pregnant wife.
“It should be on the shelves over there,” the Young Pharmacist finally managed to say, pointing at the Weleda display, positioned — of course — in pride of place at the front of the shop.
Aware of the importance of not losing my pharmacist, I scoured the shelves quickly, eventually locating the Damm-Massageöl discretely positioned at the very end of one shelf. I grabbed a box and another bottle of the ubiquitous Pregnancy Care Oil and scooted back to the counter.
As the Young Pharmacist checked the price of the Damm-Massageöl, I thought about explaining that it was for my wife but realised it was now too late for any explanations of that kind. My best hope was to get out of the shop as quickly as I could.
The Young Pharmacist explained that these two products came to EUR 1.98 more than the original two Weleda products. Cheapskate friends, I thought, but was happy to grant the shop assistant her small victory.
“I’ll be sure to be more careful with the receipt this time,” I commented jocularly as she handed me the slip. A foolhardy flourish, I admit, but I was heady from the success of my transaction. Then I was out the door, with my new Weleda products safely stowed in my bag.
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