The 'Do You Know Who I Am?' Delusion
In the grand theater of modern retail, the curtain never fully falls. A chorus of smartphones zips through the air, a chorus line of loyalty programs and VIP lounges hums in the background, and somewhere between a scented candle display and a stack of glossy receipts stands a familiar creature that seems to have multiplied with every new app update: the customer who swaggeringly asks, “Do you know who I am?”
If you’ve worked front-line service, you know this species by its distinctive aroma: entitlement with a hint of toxicity, wrapped in a smile that feels curated rather than earned. The demand arrives like a sudden plot twist in a soap opera you didn’t audition for. It isn’t about product knowledge, pricing, or policy—it's about status. The customer believes that their perceived importance grants them a special exemption from the ordinary rules that govern the rest of us, including simple human courtesy.
The delusion wears many costumes. Sometimes it’s the “we’ve spent so much here” brag that doubles as a shield, as if a lifetime total of receipts makes one immune to the normal friction of commerce. Other times it’s the “I’m a influencer/entrepreneur/VIP, therefore you should bend the line and bless me with a miracle.” Then there are the quiet, simmering versions: a look that says, I know the system will bend for me because I’ve learned where the levers are—where to press, who to flatter, which button to push in the customer service matrix.
What’s astonishing is not that this attitude exists, but how it metastasizes in the age of social proof. Trust me, I’m practically a brand ambassador, so you should treat my minor grievance as if it were a national emergency. The modern customer has learned to weaponize visibility. A well-timed hashtag or a post with a photo of a “problem solved” receipt can do more to secure a favorable outcome than patience, civility, or a modicum of gratitude ever could. The result is a service environment where the loudest voice often distorts the quality of all voices—those who bite their lips and wait quietly while the universe rearranges itself to accommodate a single cameo of importance.
Policy debates get muddied in the current near-religious worship of the customer. “The customer is always right” is recast as “The customer is always right if the camera is rolling and the algorithm is watching.” This isn’t merely about economics; it’s a psychology of compliance turned social theater. Retail workers become reluctant actors in a constant audition where the line between being helpful and being browbeaten blurs. The “Do You Know Who I Am?” Delusion isn’t just about asking for a discount or a special seat; it’s about demanding that the entire framework of business bend to the performer's self-conception.
And yet, the cure is painfully simple, even if it isn’t glamorous: treat everyone with the basic decency you’d hope for in return, regardless of their follower count, their membership tier, or their ability to shout the loudest. Remember the human across the counter—the person balancing schedules, quotas, and the weight of boring, unglamorous rules that keep a shop open. The moment the frontline worker senses your respect, your willingness to listen, and your patience to allow a normal process to unfold, you disarm the delusion the way sunlight disarms a flock of moths.
So, here’s the prescription for the era of inflated egos: scale down the spectacle, raise the baseline of civility, and let the transaction reclaim its dignity. If we can do that, the theater stops pretending to be a courtroom, and the customer—yes, even the loudest one—can be served without becoming a prop in a bad script.
