The coffee has gone cold, leaving a dark, acidic ring on a piece of paper that claims to represent the next 29 years of my home's structural integrity. It is 3:19 in the morning. My lower back is screaming because I spent the last two hours on the bathroom floor, wrestling with a corroded flange and a ballcock assembly that seemed designed by someone who hates humanity. There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from fixing a toilet in the dead of night; it makes you cynical. It makes you realize that most of the systems keeping us dry and clean are held together by luck and the occasional prayer. But now, as I sit here, I'm staring at three folders, and the cynicism is turning into a slow-boiling rage. This is the 'get three quotes' ritual, a piece of suburban folklore passed down like a cursed heirloom, and I'm beginning to realize it's a total lie.
The Illusion of Market Comparison
We are told that three is the magic number. One is a fluke, two is a comparison, but three is a market. It's supposed to empower us. Instead, I feel like I'm trying to translate three different dead languages without a dictionary.
The Spectrum of Salesmanship
The first quote is a single, handwritten page from a guy who smelled like menthol cigarettes and spent exactly 9 minutes on my roof. He gave me a number-$9,499-and told me he could start Monday. No mention of drip edges, no mention of ventilation, just a price and a handshake that felt a bit too sweaty.
The second quote is a 49-page glossy binder that looks like it was produced by a marketing agency in Manhattan. It's full of thermal imaging, material science diagrams, and a price tag of $19,799. The third guy? He's been texting me every 19 minutes with 'limited time offers' that expire at midnight, making me feel like I'm Negotiating for a used car rather than a structural necessity.
Oscar J., the dollhouse architect, finds this hilarious. He builds 1/12th scale Victorian mansions with such surgical precision that he uses a 9-millimeter magnifying glass to check the grain of the miniature oak floorboards.
Oscar doesn't deal with 'three quotes.' He deals with the truth of the material. If a miniature roof needs 499 tiny shingles, he applies 499 tiny shingles. There is no 'cheaper' version of the truth in his world.
But here I am, at my kitchen table, being asked to decide which of these three men is lying to me the least. The 'Three Quote Rule' assumes that the services being offered are identical, but in the roofing world, that is never the case. It's an apples-to-asbestos comparison.
Information Asymmetry: The Imbalance of Power
This is the tyranny of information asymmetry. The contractor knows everything; I know nothing. I'm just a guy who knows my ceiling has a yellow stain that looks vaguely like the state of Ohio. When the salesman tells me I need a specific type of synthetic underlayment, I have no choice but to nod like a bobblehead.
Skipped Decking/Flashing
Includes Necessary Repairs
Contractor B looks like the 'better' deal to the untrained eye. We are being trained to shop for the lowest common denominator, which is a dangerous way to treat the only thing standing between your family and the rain.
The Race to the Bottom
I think back to that toilet at 3am. I could have bought a $9 repair kit from the big-box store, or I could have called a professional. I chose the DIY route, and now I have a bruised kidney and a floor that might be rotting. Why do we do this to ourselves? We treat our homes like they are disposable, seeking out the bargain-basement price for the most critical components. The three-quote rule creates a race to the bottom. It encourages contractors to cut corners, to skip the ice and water shield, to reuse old flashing, just so they can hit that 'middle' price point where most homeowners feel safe.
If you don't know the difference between a starter strip and a ridge vent, three quotes just means you have three ways to be confused. You aren't comparing roofs; you are comparing personalities. You are choosing the guy you'd most like to have a beer with, which is a terrible metric for choosing someone to hammer 9,000 nails into your house.
Oscar J. called me once while he was working on a miniature chimney. He tore the whole thing down and started over. He didn't look for a 'cheaper' way to fix the mistake. He just did the work correctly because the work demanded it.
We've replaced craftsmanship with 'estimates' and 'bidding wars.' We've turned our homes into line items on a spreadsheet. But a roof isn't a line item. It's a shield. It's a 149-pound man standing on a steep slope in the sun, making sure that when the next storm hits, you aren't sitting at your kitchen table at 3:39 in the morning with a bucket and a sense of regret.
The Cost of the Bargain (1999)
I remember my father once told me that the most expensive thing you can buy is a cheap roof. He went with the guy who promised the world for $4,999. Two years later, that guy's phone number was disconnected, and the shingles were curling like dead leaves. That is the true cost of the bargain. It's not just the money; it's the mental tax of wondering if every dark cloud is the one that finally wins.
So, I'm pushing these folders aside. The coffee is gone, the toilet is fixed (mostly), and the sun is probably 109 minutes away from rising. I'm done being a victim of the 'three quote' mandate. I don't want three options; I want one solution. I want the person who can explain the 'why' behind the 'how much.'
Stop Counting Quotes. Start Counting on Quality.
I want the Oscar J. of the roofing world-the person who cares about the scale and the integrity of the project more than the slickness of the presentation. Finding a partner like A&W Roofing is about breaking the cycle of confusion. It's about moving past the arbitrary number of three and finding the single number that actually reflects the work required to keep your house standing for the next 39 years.
Because at the end of the day, when the wind is howling at 49 miles per hour, I don't want to be thinking about how much money I saved. I want to be thinking about how dry my bed is. The kitchen table is for eating and for conversation, not for playing a high-stakes game of 'guess the contractor' with the roof over my head.