The incident seems trivial. A customer applied hand cream in a café, and the owner responded by offering a refund and asking the customer to leave.
From a legal perspective, there is little to complicate. There was a business policy, a refund was issued, and no forced financial loss occurred.
And yet, this story did not pass quietly.
People reacted with unusual discomfort, drawing on their own experiences to interpret the scene.
Why?
What people lingered on was not the scent, nor the café’s philosophy.
The core moment was this:
“I’m sorry, but I will issue you a refund.”
A decision faster than explanation. Exclusion presented before conversation.
The discomfort did not arise because a rule existed, but because there was no room for that rule to be adjusted.
The mere existence of rules does not usually make people uncomfortable.
In fact, most people prefer spaces with rules.
Discomfort emerges after that.
When people expect even one of the following:
A margin for minor deviation.
Time for explanation.
A buffering moment of
“This is acceptable, just this once.”
And when that expectation is cut off immediately, people feel as though they have been pushed out of the space.
This sensation is small, but it lingers.
Economically, the owner’s choice was clean.
The money was returned, and the conflict was not prolonged.
And yet, the discomfort remained.
Because a refund can compensate for the end of a transaction, but it cannot explain the severing of a relationship.
We use cafés, but we also remain in them.
To remain in a place involves more than a simple exchange.
That is why this incident felt rational, but not warm.
This essay does not say the owner was wrong. Nor does it say the customer was overly sensitive.
It leaves only this question:
Why do we experience such deep discomfort from such a small misalignment?
This question extends beyond this café, and lingers across many of the places we occupy today.
How good principles become standards that cannot be adjusted.
In the next essay, we will look more closely at the moment when principles shift from “values to uphold” into “lines that cannot be crossed.”
Most principles are not created to push people away from the start.
Quite the opposite. They are formed to protect certain values, to maintain a particular order.
The problem does not begin when a principle is wrong, but when it stops receiving questions.
In their early stage, principles are accompanied by explanation.
“This space values these things.”
“That’s why we ask for this.”
At this point, a principle resembles a shared agreement.
But over time, principles are repeated. And repeated principles become a baseline.
Once they become a baseline, principles are no longer explained. They become something one is simply expected to know.
From this moment on, principles no longer persuade people. They begin to divide them.
The disappearance of adjustment is rarely driven by malice.
More often, it is driven by certainty.
“This is a clear rule.”
“This much should be observed.”
“If we allow exceptions, everything collapses.”
This certainty grants legitimacy to those who uphold the principle.
But at the same time, it pushes away the ability to read the situation.
Adjustment is always slower than certainty, and more ambiguous than principles.
That is why, in busy spaces, and in spaces that prioritize efficiency, adjustment is the first thing to disappear.
As principles continue to be repeated, a shift quietly occurs.
The question becomes not what the principle stands for, but how perfectly it is followed.
At this stage, the principle turns from a value into a measure of purity.
Those who violated it slightly, those who did not know, those who had no intention— all are classified in the same way.
The language of adjustment disappears, leaving only the language of application.
From here on, principles no longer protect people. They begin to test them.
The discomfort people feel does not originate from principles themselves.
Statements like “That’s just how this place is” are usually acceptable.
Discomfort arises when principles operate without explanation, and when their outcome leads directly to exclusion.
People remember for a long time not the fact that they broke a rule, but the experience that there was no room for adjustment.
This essay does not reject principles.
Principles are necessary. Without them, spaces cannot be sustained.
Still, one question remains:
Since when have we stopped hesitating between upholding principles and keeping people?
Where this question disappears, adjustment disappears with it.
What is interesting is that people reach completely different judgments about the same incident.
In the next essay, we will look more closely at why the version of ourselves as an owner and the version of ourselves as a customer speak so differently.
When looking at the same scene, people often arrive at sharply different judgments.
“Business policies should be respected.”
“This is excessive.”
What is interesting is that these two statements do not always come from different people.
Sometimes, they come from the same person.
With one condition: it depends on where they are standing.
When I am the owner, my thoughts tend to follow this line:
“This much should be observed.”
“If we allow exceptions, the standard collapses.”
“Without principles, the space cannot be maintained.”
These thoughts have their own logic. There is responsibility. There is an order to maintain. There is fatigue that must be borne.
But when I become the customer, I feel something different.
“Not even this is allowed?”
“There wasn’t even a chance to explain.”
“This feels too one-sided.”
These feelings are also natural. I am a user. I want to be respected. I expect the right to remain in the space, even briefly.
Most people have, at some point, been both the owner and the customer.
Even without running a business, many have been team leaders, or found themselves enforcing rules on others.
And yet, we often draw only from the memory of the position we are currently occupying.
As a result, our judgments harden, and our perspective narrows.
Much of conflict begins not from malice, but from a bias toward the role we remember most vividly.
At this point, arguing about who is more correct does not take us very far.
What matters is this question:
If I were viewing this scene from a different position, would I say the same thing?
The moment this question fails to appear, adjustment moves further away.
Because adjustment always begins not with the certainty that “the other is wrong,” but with the recognition that “I could be in that position too.”
People who are capable of adjustment tend to carry multiple memories at once.
The fatigue of having to uphold principles. The chill of being excluded.
That is why they try to explain a little more, and decide a little later.
This is not indecisiveness, but the posture of someone who has moved between roles.
What if there had been children in that space?
The customer’s child, or the owner’s child— if they had witnessed the scene, would the words and attitudes of the adults have remained the same?
In the next essay, we will talk about the presence that makes us most capable of adjustment.
Faced with the same incident, people often say things like this:
“Rules are rules.”
“Still, that was too much.”
But when we add one simple assumption, the temperature of the scene begins to change.
If there had been a child present, would we have spoken in the same way?
Children did not create the rules, nor do they bear responsibility for breaking them.
They were simply present in the space.
And that presence alters the structure of conflict.
The enforcement of rules shifts from an immediate judgment to a visible scene.
The owner begins to ask:
“If this child is watching, what kind of adult will I remain as?”
The customer, too, finds it difficult to avoid the same question.
In front of children, adults tend to lose certainty.
Voices lower. Words grow longer. Decisions are delayed.
This is not hypocrisy, but an adjustment of speed.
Children remember scenes more than contexts.
Whether someone was forced to leave. Whether adults raised their voices. Whether the space suddenly grew cold.
Adults know this instinctively.
That is why, in front of children, posture comes before principles.
If the customer’s child had been present, being asked to leave would not simply mark the end of service.
It would become a memory of exclusion.
“If you do something wrong, you get kicked out” is translated into a child’s language.
This possibility alone is enough to change the way people speak.
Explanations lengthen. Decisions are delayed by a single beat.
Adjustment usually begins in that single beat.
If the owner’s child had been standing nearby, the scene would unfold differently.
The owner would know that they are showing not only the philosophy of the space, but also how to treat people.
The choice would tilt not toward extremes, but toward buffering.
“This time is okay.”
“Please keep it in mind next time.”
These words do not abandon principles. They choose a way of explaining them.
This assumption does not romanticize the incident.
It simply asks this:
When do we become most capable of adjustment?
One answer is clear.
When the scene is likely to become someone’s memory.
The presence of a child does not break rules. It asks us how we apply them.
Now, we will separate this discomfort from the café itself.
Why does this same sensation repeat itself in workplaces, communities, and online spaces?
In the next essay, we will look more broadly at spaces where adjustment has disappeared.
This discomfort did not arise in just one café.
Similar sensations repeat themselves across many of the places we inhabit.
In workplaces. In online communities. In gyms and shared spaces. Even within the smallest everyday rules.
There are more spaces than ever, yet it feels as though there is less room to remain.
Contemporary spaces are generally well designed.
Clear concepts. Clear rules. Polite signage.
The problem begins after that.
The more refined a space becomes, the weaker it grows at tolerating exceptions.
At the slightest misalignment, the space responds immediately.
“This use is not permitted.”
“This is against regulations.”
“We recommend an alternative.”
The language is courteous, but the outcome is fast.
In the past, adjustment belonged to the space.
Reading the person. Reading the situation. Absorbing friction little by little.
But now, that role has gradually shifted onto individuals.
I must anticipate first. I must adapt first. And if I do not fit, I must be the one to leave.
The space remains. The person moves on.
That is why many spaces today feel clean, yet turn cold so easily.
Rules are efficient. Relationships are inconvenient.
And so many spaces choose to minimize relationships.
The problem is that people are not beings who can remain on rules alone.
We remember far longer than the fact that we broke a rule, the way we were treated.
That is why discomfort accumulates.
It is not that people have become more sensitive.
It is that the room for adjustment has diminished.
Options have increased. Buffering has disappeared. Time for explanation has shortened.
As a result, even a small misalignment feels immediately like disqualification.
This is not a problem of sensitivity, but of environment.
Looking back, spaces people remember for a long time share similar qualities.
Not spaces without rules, but spaces where rules moved slowly.
Where explanation came before judgment.
Where people were allowed to remain one moment longer.
They were not perfect, but adjustment existed.
That is why such spaces are remembered not as “good,” but as “comfortable.”
Now, one final question remains.
Why do people remember moments of adjustment longer than spaces built on perfect philosophy?
In the final essay of this series, we will quietly reflect on what people ultimately remember.
We often say things like this:
“The rules were clear.”
“It was a space with a strong philosophy.”
But after some time has passed, a different scene remains in memory.
Not the moment someone broke a rule, but how that misalignment was handled.
People do not remember rules precisely.
What the sign said. How many clauses there were. Where the boundary was drawn.
These details fade quickly.
What remains instead is a feeling.
Was an explanation offered? What was the tone of voice? Did I feel respected?
That is why some spaces are revisited, and others are never spoken of again.
Adjustment is not recorded like an incident.
It does not become a headline. It does not turn into an argument. There is no reason to call it a problem.
It simply passes, like this:
“This time is okay.”
“Please keep it in mind next time.”
“Let me explain.”
These words are quiet and rarely noticed, but they determine the temperature of a space.
And that temperature stays in people’s memories for a long time.
People do not return to the place with the most perfect rules.
They return to the place where they felt the least discomfort.
Feeling little discomfort does not mean that nothing happened.
It means there was misalignment, and that misalignment was handled as a human matter.
That is why the spaces we return to were often a little slower, and a little less sharp.
Places Without Adjustment did not argue about who was right.
It did not blame owners, customers, or spaces.
It followed a different set of questions.
Since when have we grown accustomed to clarity without adjustment?
And as a result, what have we been losing?
Adjustment does not weaken rules.
It keeps rules close to people.
That is why a slightly hesitant posture is remembered longer than a perfectly enforced principle.
Perhaps that is why, in the end, people remember the moment when things were adjusted.
If there had been a child present— the other person’s child beside you, or your own child watching the scene— would the conversation have unfolded in the same way?
The speed of the words. The manner of the decision. The posture with which people faced one another.
Would none of it have changed at all?
Is it really such a difficult thing to imagine?
And if you do not have a child, imagine instead another customer’s child.
That child may not understand what is happening.
But there is a strong chance that the child will remember the scene.
How the adults spoke. How they stopped. How they treated one another.
If someone’s child had been there, we would probably have been a little less certain.
We might have explained a bit more. Waited a bit longer. And perhaps allowed one more person to remain.
It is only an assumption. A very small one.
But we know this:
That a single assumption can change a conversation, change a scene, and change a memory.
It looks simple. And yet, we do not always do it.
That may be why this story is still ongoing.
Adjustment does not begin with grand philosophy.
It begins with a brief imagination:
That this moment could become someone’s memory.
Is that really such a difficult thing?