Why We Buy (19 page)

That's a wise approach—remember, it's only one branch among many—for it acknowledges the fact that a product or service meant for youthful shoppers thereby declares itself off-limits to the rest of us. Clarion, the Proctor & Gamble cosmetic brand, no longer exists, but it was for a while a heavily promoted cosmetics brand. It was an early user of interactive computer fixtures—women would type in some information about their coloring and skin type, and the computer would tell them which Clarion products to buy. For some reason, though, the fixtures gradually migrated downward to low shelves, positioned perfectly for adolescent girls. They returned the favor by making avid use of the computers. Once adult women saw this, naturally, they assumed that Clarion was meant for beginners and steered clear. Thus was Clarion's reputation sealed, and before long it was withdrawn from the market.

S
o far we've seen all that must be done simply to make retail environments user-friendly at the basic levels. The demands of anatomy must be obeyed just for shopping to be possible. The behavioral differences due to gender and age must be accommodated, or else stores, restaurants and banks will be best suited to a generic—sexless, ageless—human being who does not exist. Once all that is seen to, of course, things get really interesting. This third aspect of the science of shopping is where we find all the give and take, the back and forth—the romance, if you will. Retailing, for all we know about it, remains a mystery. Why does someone who walks into a store thinking Hewlett-Packard walk out lugging a Canon? (Or vice versa?) What induces someone who decides to kill a few minutes in a boutique to walk out $1,000 lighter but feeling infinitely more fashionable—more beautiful—than ever before? Yes, the simple answer is that he found something he wanted, but there's no easy explanation for how
that
happened. Good stores perform a kind of retailing judo—they use the shopper's own momentum, his or her own inclinations and desires, to get him or her to do something
perhaps totally unplanned. In the end, it's not enough that goods be within reach of the shopper; he or she must want to reach them. And having reached them, he or she must then wish to own them, or all this effort goes for naught. Amid so much science, we discover in the end it's love that makes the world of retailing go round. What do shoppers love? A few important things, we've learned, such as:

TOUCH.
We live in a tactile-deprived society, and shopping is one of our few chances to freely experience the material world firsthand. Almost all unplanned buying is a result of touching, hearing, smelling or tasting something on the premises of a store—which is why merchandising is more powerful than marketing, and why the Internet, catalogs and home shopping on TV will prosper and complement, but never seriously challenge, real live stores.

MIRRORS.
Stand and watch what happens at any reflective surface: We preen like chimps, men and women alike. Self-interest is a basic part of our species. From shopping to cosmetic surgery, we care about how we look. As we've said, mirrors slow shoppers in their tracks, a very good thing for whatever merchandise happens to be in the vicinity. But even around wearable items such as clothing, jewelry and cosmetics, where mirrors are crucial sales tools, stores fail to provide enough of them.

DISCOVERY.
There's little more satisfying than walking into a store, picking up the (metaphorical) scent of something we've been hunting for and then tracking it to its lair. Too much signage and point-of-purchase display takes all the adventure out of a shopping trip; stores shouldn't be willfully confusing or obscure, but they should seduce shoppers through the aisles with suggestions and hints of what's to come. The aroma of warm bread can be enough to lead supermarket shoppers to the bakery aisle; a big, beautiful photograph of a James Bondian stud in a creamy dinner jacket carries more levels of information than the clearest formalwear sign can ever convey.

TALKING.
Stores that attract lots of couples, friends or groups of shoppers usually do very well. If you can create an atmosphere that fosters discussion of an outfit, say, or a particular cell phone, the merchandise begins to sell itself.

RECOGNITION.
In that old TV show
Cheers,
the theme song went, “you want to go where everybody knows your name.” This is a battlefield where the small, locally owned store can still best the national chains, and smart stores make the most of this advantage. Given a choice, people will shop where they feel wanted, and they'll even pay a little more for the privilege. Even the smallest stores can build customer loyalty just by keeping track of what people buy and giving price breaks when appropriate. Our studies show that
any
contact initiated by a store employee—and I mean even a hello—increases the likelihood that a shopper will buy something. If the salesperson suggests a few things or offers information, the chances rise even higher. Of course, shoppers don't love pushy salespeople, so there's a line here.

BARGAINS.
This seems obvious, but it goes beyond simply cutting prices. At Victoria's Secret, for example, underwear is frequently piled on a table and marked five pairs for $20, which sounds like a much better deal than the $5 a pair normally charged. At even the poshest stores, the clearance racks get shopped avidly. Still, while shoppers expect a certain amount of elbow-to-elbow crowding around the discount table, they won't bite if the physical discomfort becomes too noticeable. They'll extricate a blouse from a jammed sale rack, for example, but if there's no room to back up and examine it as closely as the full-price merchandise, they won't buy.

On the other hand, shoppers tend to hate:

TOO MANY MIRRORS.
A store shouldn't feel like a funhouse. At a certain point, all that glass becomes disorienting.

LINES.
Not only do they hate to wait, they also hate to feel negative emotions while they do it—like frustration at watching inefficiency, or anxiety wondering if they're in the fastest line, or boredom because there's nothing for them to read, watch or shop while they wait. The memory of a good shopping trip can be wiped out by a bad experience in the checkout line.

ASKING DUMB QUESTIONS.
New products especially should be out where shoppers can examine them, not behind glass. And there should be enough signs, brochures, instructional videos, newspaper articles, talking displays and whatever else is necessary for browsers to
bring themselves up to speed before they ask a question. When stores work at making new or complicated products accessible, sales always increase.

DIPPING.
Or bending, either, especially when their hands are full. If it's a challenge to reach down and pick up merchandise, shoppers will pass, figuring that another store will make the acquisition easier.

GOODS OUT OF STOCK.
Self-explanatory.

OBSCURE PRICE TAGS.
Ditto.

INTIMIDATING SERVICE.
Also rude service, slow service, uninformed service, unintelligent service, distracted service, languid service, lazy service, surly service. Probably the single best word of mouth for a store is this: “They're so nice down at that shop!” When service is lousy, shoppers will find another store; bad service undoes good merchandise, prices and location almost every time. Regardless of how practical an activity shopping seems to be, feelings always come first, and good is always better than bad.

In the chapters that follow, we'll discuss what is probably the most powerful inducement to shopping—the opportunity to touch, try, taste, smell and otherwise explore the world of desirable objects, and how the artful juxtaposition of those objects can sometimes make all the difference in the world. We'll see how not just the merchandise but the displays, too, determine what gets noticed or ignored. We'll talk about how retailers can manipulate even our perception of time in order to control the shopping experience. We'll also take a look at what might seem to be the antithesis of sensual shopping—the future world of retailing via the Internet.

T
his might seem like an odd question coming from anyone at any time but especially coming here and now, in an inquiry such as the one we're conducting. But I need to ask it anyway: What
is
shopping?

I don't mean what is buying. I don't mean what is entering a public place where goods are kept until they can be exchanged for money. I definitely do not mean what is retailing, or what is commerce, or what is trade.

I mean: What is shopping? Who does it, and how? How does one go about this shopping activity?

For the purposes of this discussion, let's stipulate that shopping is more than the simple, dutiful acquisition of whatever is absolutely necessary to one's life. It's more than what we call the “grab and go”—you need cornflakes, you go to the cornflakes, you grab the cornflakes, you pay for the cornflakes, and
haveaniceday.
The kind of activity I mean involves a human being experiencing that portion of the world that has been deemed for sale, using her senses—sight, touch, smell, taste, hearing—and then choosing this or rejecting that (or choosing or
rejecting it all, I suppose) on the basis of…something. It's the sensory aspect of that decision-making process that's most intriguing, because how else do we experience anything? But it's especially crucial in this context because virtually all unplanned purchases—and many planned ones, too—come as a result of the shopper seeing, touching, smelling or tasting something that promises pleasure, if not total fulfillment.

I want to repeat this, because I think it's key: We buy things today more than ever based on trial and touch.

Now, why might somebody wish to touch something before buying it? There are plenty of very practical reasons, the most obvious being that if a product's tactile qualities are what's most important, we must know how it will feel. For instance, we like to touch towels before we buy them—in a study we did, towels were touched on average by six different shoppers before they were actually purchased. (Which is why you really ought to wash them before you use them.) Bed linens—how sheets feel is pretty much the whole ball game. And clothing—we need to pet, stroke and fondle sweaters and shirts especially, but most apparel falls into this category. I think men's underwear makers are missing an opportunity by sealing the goods inside plastic bags. No women's underwear is sold that way, for good reason—women want to test anything that will go against their skin. Men would, too, if someone only gave them the chance.

There are also nontextile products that come into contact with our bodies and are therefore touch-worthy—lotions and moisturizers, lipstick, makeup, deodorant and powder, just to pick a few things from the health and beauty aisles. You need to touch something if it will be held or carried or wielded in some way. A hammer, for instance—you've got to heft it before you know it's right for you. Same goes for a handbag, briefcase or suitcase. An umbrella. A knife, a spatula, tongs. Anything you're going to carry around all day, like a wallet. Looking gives you a pretty good idea of how it's going to feel, but nothing takes the place of your own hand.

What don't you need to touch? Lightbulbs—
nobody
touches lightbulbs. But even they cry out to be experienced. You can buy them in a box in the supermarket or hanging from a rack in a hardware store.
Or you can go to a big home center and see those lightbulbs in action, glowing cozily inside lampshades. Which method sells more bulbs, do you think, or more expensive bulbs?

The rule of thumb in these matters is usually that shoppers want to spend time investigating and considering those products in which they have a high level of “involvement,” meaning products that offer possibilities or invite comparison. In the supermarket, for instance, you might want to try a new brand of ketchup or cheese, or a pricey variety of apple or peach, before you buy. Salsa makers, for some reason, always seem to be conducting taste tests of new variations. Nobody needs to taste-test Budweiser, but if you're going to buy that expensive new lambic ale or that Armenian beer, you'll want to try a little first. How about sugar? Waste of time—sugar's sugar. Ditto vegetable oil, although people taste olive oil as though it's vintage wine. Twenty-year-old balsamic vinegar is always going to be a specialty item, but if stores let you try a little you might spring for it. Milk? As long as it's cold and the expiration date hasn't come and gone, you're convinced.

Close to 90 percent of all new grocery products fail, but it isn't because people didn't like them—it's because people never tried them. In my opinion, a new product introduction that doesn't include a well-funded, fully supported (with marketing) effort to give shoppers samples is not a serious attempt. Cigarettes may be bad, but until the 1990s the tobacco companies had a great method for getting samples out there: pretty boys and girls standing on street corners handing out freebies. Even nonsmokers took them, not wanting to reject such pleasant entreaties. Maybe we need to retrain those kids to hand out stuff on the supermarket floor.

Of course, a combined marketing-sampling effort still must properly decide on its target audience. In the earliest days of microwave popcorn, we were hired by General Mills to help expand the market for its product. “Who buys it now?” we asked. “Sixty-four percent of our purchasers are females,” they replied. That was partly because back then men had yet to discover the ease of microwave cuisine, and partly because most of the marketing effort—the TV commercials and print ads—were directed at women and placed in women's programming and media.

“Whom do you want to reach with the sampling campaign?” we asked. “Well, women, of course,” they replied. Which was the wrong answer—they had already reached a substantial female market. And when you think about microwave popcorn, you realize that it's perfect for men. It's the easiest thing in the world to make, it's a salty snack food and men are suggestible, impulsive shoppers who can be convinced to try almost anything. The product was being sold in six-packs for around $4. To gear it toward men, we advised, required less of a commitment—sell a two-pack for a buck and advertise it during hockey games.

Once you get beyond food, the involvement level drops. I'm convinced there's room in the marketplace for high-end toilet paper. People would spend more but only if it were possible to show them the difference on the floor of the supermarket, and there's the rub. Makers of brand-name plastic food wrap, aluminum foil and trash bags experience a great deal of frustration over this issue. Most shoppers will buy whatever's cheapest, and it's almost impossible to convince them that there's any point to buying a better (and more costly) trash bag. Why spend more when only your trash will know the difference?

Supermarkets are wisely becoming more sensual than ever. Most good ones now feature on-premises bakeries, which fill the air with warm, homey scents. You may be in the vitamin section when that aroma hits you, and before you know it you've followed the olfactory trail right up to the counter. Suddenly you're thinking, “I need bread”—but even more importantly, a good smell gets your saliva glands working, which translates into more sales. Stores have taken a tip from Starbucks and begun brewing and selling by the cup the expensive coffee beans they sell loose, another way of putting a product's sensory assets to work.

Scent is the new frontier of marketing. Martin Lindstrom, a prominent author and consultant, helps companies brand smells. In his book
BRAND sense,
he describes the special places fragrances hold in our memories, whether it's Play-Doh, Johnson's baby shampoo or a whiff of pure vanilla. Just as a baby animal recognizes the odor of its mother, we humans bond intimately with smells, too.

In April of 2007, I visited a new prototype store in Halifax, Canada,
run by the Nova Scotia Liquor Commission. The store was divided by what they considered to be age preferences, and each section had its signature scent, piped in through air vents. There was a sweetly fruity, fragrant section for thirty-and-under imbibers filled with Pucker-shot concoctions, tequilas and flavored vodkas; another section of whiskeys for the mature palate (the piped-in aroma was smoky-dark and more sophisticated) and then extensive wine collections designed for the specific age groups of the customers, with different fragrances depending on the product and vintage. Just as our eyes age, so do our smell and taste buds. I loved the ad I saw once on a New York City bus shelter promoting a well-known Scotch whisky. The ad read, “You thought girls were yucky once, too.” It's no accident that kids like sweets and sweet smells, and that the older we get the more we enjoy savory and bitter tastes.

In the new Best Buy consumer electronics store that opened just off Columbus Circle in the fall of 2007, the appliance section smelled of freshly ironed linen; these days, the dispersion of scent is done via machines. But when is enough enough? Will we start smelling eau de steak or essence of bacon-on-the-griddle in the frozen meat section of our supermarket? I'd like that. More meat would certainly be sold, but smells would also add something else to the overall shopping experience. It would become a sensualist's journey, not just another trip to the supermarket. Problem is, one person's perfume is another person's stink. I have an Italian friend who loathes the smell of oranges to the point where she's banned oranges in her office. The smell of roasting meat may get a lot of us salivating, but to many vegetarians it's nauseating.

In England, some infant apparel stores now pipe in baby powder through the air ducts, to put shoppers in mind of the sweet-sour smell of newborns, which is perhaps the most powerfully evocative scent of all. When we suggested to American baby powder makers that they add smell to their packaging, they recoiled, fearful that store managers would banish any product that threatened to contaminate the supermarket's sterile, odorless confines. And it's true that with the exception of the produce aisles, supermarkets here have no tradition of feeding our desire for sensory stimulation, for scent or taste or touch or even sight. They're still stuck in the early '60s, the time of frozen food, canned
food, processed food, powdered food, packaged food and the germless ideal of blinding white cleanliness. I wish one would install a big open kitchen, like something you'd see on a TV cooking show, where the store chef can whip up snacks and pass them (and their recipes) out to shoppers. How about if the manager announced over the loudspeaker, “Attention all shoppers! For the next fifteen minutes, in the frozen foods section…free passion-fruit sorbet for everyone!” How about a DJ and a dance floor in produce, a puppet show in the cereal aisle, a jazz trio or the high school glee club at the checkout? It's possible to bring a little more life to a store that is the epitome of shopping puritanism.

Touch and trial are more important today than ever to the world of shopping because of changes in how stores function. Once upon a time, store owners and salespeople were our guides to the merchandise they sold. They were knowledgeable enough, and there were enough of them, to act as the shopper's intermediary to the world of things. We could take a clerk's word for something because he or she had been right so many times before. That was, not coincidentally, back in the day of grand wooden cabinets with glass fronts behind which goods were displayed, the heyday of the hardware store and the haberdasher and the general store, when space was clearly divided between shoppers and staff.

Today, the “open sell” school of display puts most everything out there where we can touch or smell or try it, unmediated by sales clerks. In 1960, 35 percent of the average Sears store was given over to storage. Now it's less than 15 percent. Today it's almost pointless to ask a clerk if an item you want is in the back room. Chances are, there
is
no back room. Everything is either on the shelves or in the little storage cupboards below. It's a brilliant innovation—what good is anything when it's in storage? You can't buy it unless you can find a clerk, and what do you do when there are too few clerks, or too few knowledgeable ones, or too few clerks who are actively trying to help you buy anything? It makes perfect sense to just put it all out there as invitingly and enticingly and conveniently as possible, and then let the shoppers and their good senses discover the stuff on their own.

Another reason touch and trial have become so important is the
waning power of product brand name. When consumers believed in the companies behind the big brands, that belief went a long way toward selling things. No longer. This is an extreme example, but revealing: In a study we did for a national brand of skin and hair products, we found that of all ethnic groups, Asian-American shoppers were most aggressive about opening the packaging and touching the lotions, soaps and shampoos. In fact, 23 percent of those shoppers tore into the boxes or opened the bottles to test the viscosity and scent of the products. Clearly, this was due to the fact that the brand, despite having spent many millions on ads and media, still had not gained instant recognition and loyalty among an important and growing ethnic segment.

For that matter, we are all post-Nader shoppers—we'll believe it when we see/smell/touch/hear/taste/try it. Depending on what we're buying and what it costs, there's a healthy skeptic (or is it a nagging doubt?) in our heads that must be put to rest before we can buy at ease. We need to feel a certain level of confidence in a product and its value, which comes only from hard evidence, not from TV commercials or word of mouth. It's shocking how little stores seem to understand something so simple. We've done lots of research in computer retailing, and we've come upon this over and over: big sections of printers on display, but only some of them actually plugged in and working and stocked with paper, despite the fact that most printers make it easy to run tests.