The Etsy Customer Field Guide: Species Every Vintage Seller Eventually Encounters
I've been selling vintage and antique items on Etsy for nearly five years.
Recently, I became sufficiently reckless to open my own independent shop. It felt a bit like an iceberg breaking away from the glacier and setting off into the open ocean on its own.
But before I disappear completely into the wild waters of independent retail, there is something I need to say.
Because after five years, I simply can no longer remain silent.
This article is dedicated to my fellow vintage sellers.
I know you can't really talk about this publicly. At best, you discuss it in specialist forums where Etsy moderators are absent.
Or, more importantly, where Etsy moderators are very absent.
And yet the thing exists.
It lives among us.
You encounter it daily.
And once you've seen it, you cannot unsee it.
I'm talking, of course, about customer species.
The remarkable collection of human subtypes that somehow emerge the moment antiques, vintage objects and internet access are combined.
After years of observation, I feel it is finally time to publish my findings.
Disclaimer: All Johns mentioned in this article are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual Etsy buyers, living or messaging, is purely coincidental.
The Anxious Buyer
This is by far the most common species.
Cha-Ching!
For those unfamiliar with Etsy, that's the delightful sound the seller app makes when a purchase comes in.
The notification arrives at 00:05.
Sometimes you're still awake and catch it from the corner of your eye.
Excellent.
The day is already off to a promising start, your half-asleep brain observes as it drifts peacefully towards sleep.
Then, at 00:17, a message arrives.
"Hi! My name is John. I've just bought your vintage coffee grinder.
Have you shipped it yet?"
Now.
Let's briefly examine the facts.
At this point, seventeen minutes have passed since the purchase.
Seventeen.
Not hours.
Not days.
Minutes.
A Formula One pit crew would struggle to source packing materials, wrap an antique coffee grinder, print the label and hand the parcel to an international courier in seventeen minutes.
Yet somehow John remains optimistic.
Curtain.
The Super-Anxious Buyer
Sometimes the Anxious Buyer evolves.
When this happens, it enters a more advanced stage of development and becomes the Super-Anxious Buyer.
A second message arrives.
"Hi! It's John again.
I just wanted to say...
Please pack it carefully."
My dear John.
I have sold several thousand fragile vintage and antique objects.
They have travelled from neighbouring Luxembourg to New Zealand, El Salvador and Trinidad and Tobago.
Do you genuinely imagine that after years of shipping delicate antiques around the globe, I wake up one morning and think:
"You know what?
Today I'd like to find out what happens when porcelain collides with reality at 80 kilometres per hour."
Bubble wrap was invented before either of us arrived on this planet.
I am aware of its existence.
Curtain.
The Post-Purchase Visionary
The purchase is made.
The buyer is delighted.
They send you their phone number because you politely requested it in the listing to ensure smooth delivery.
You thank them.
You promise prompt dispatch and a tracking number.
Several days pass.
The parcel is packed.
The parcel is wrapped.
The parcel is reinforced.
The parcel is decorated with enough FRAGILE stickers to suggest that it may contain either priceless antiques or unexploded military equipment.
It waits patiently by the door.
Ready to begin its journey.
Then a message arrives.
"Hi! It's John.
Would it be possible to cancel the order?
I think the item is very expensive."
Curtain.
My dear man.
This astonishing discovery was apparently made after purchasing the item.
Not before.
Not while reading the price.
Not while entering payment details.
Not during the final confirmation screen.
Afterwards.
This is precisely why I clearly state that my shop is not Amazon.
Although, to be fair, even Amazon eventually closes the window of immediate regret.
The Brass Colour Inspector
A message arrives.
No greeting.
No introduction.
No context whatsoever.
"Can you confirm the colour of the brass?"
I decide to approach the matter professionally.
After all, this is clearly a serious scientific enquiry.
I walk to storage.
I retrieve the item.
I examine it carefully.
I rotate it in my hands.
I attempt to summon every known characteristic of brass from the depths of human knowledge.
What if I look at it from this angle?
What about that angle?
What about in direct sunlight?
Or at dusk?
What if the lighting is affecting my perception?
What if I'm colour-blind?
What if you're colour-blind?
What if brass itself has been misleading us all these years?
Several minutes later, I am no closer to understanding what level of chromatic certainty is required.
Curtain.
To be continued.