I have reached an age where I possess a fine collection of tools, many of which I don’t know how to use. I even own two hammers. One is what I’m sure my family and forebears would call a “real” hammer: a claw hammer with a fine wooden handle, where the interface between wood and steel is milled to a single, smooth surface. I use this to hit things. A wide variety of things. Hit with relish. I also own a small, delicate, “ladies” hammer with a slim, plastic handle and a head which falls off. I use this for the gentle tapping of small, delicate things held in less small, delicate fingers. And I know of the existence of such exotica as the ball-peen hammer, though in fairness I wouldn’t recognise one if it fell on my toe.
More relevantly, I recently encountered exactly this situation where an organisation which had grown fat and happy pounding nails with its claw-hammer could not even countenance the existence of other hitting devices.
Especially tough when you’ve started trying to sell screws.