There’s something deliciously absurd about pricing.
A handful of digits, maybe a decimal point, and suddenly grown adults behave like they’ve spotted a clearance bin at Fortnum’s.
We pretend it’s maths, logical, sober, objective. It’s never just a number. It’s a message.
Charm pricing, prestige pricing, anchoring, decoys, bundles, Each one is like being guided through a gallery by Serge, everything is fabulous, a twist of lemon.
Numbers dressed up to look sensible while whispering strange things to your lizard brain. £500 feels poised and confident. £462.37 feels like a psychopath took over the pricing gun.
And anchoring, anchoring is witchcraft.
Show someone the £10,000 version first and the £5,000 one suddenly feels thrifty, like it’s doing you a favour.
Then there’s the joy of dynamic pricing, perfectly acceptable if you’re booking a flight, unforgivable if it’s a handbag. In luxury, time-based fluctuation doesn’t feel clever. It feels rude.
Because pricing isn’t arithmetic. It’s signalling. A way to say, this is who we are, this is who you are, this is how this transaction should make you feel. The difference between exclusivity and desperation might be nothing more than a rounded number and a raised eyebrow.
So the next time you see a price, ignore the number. Ask what it’s trying to say when it thinks you’re not listening.
Chances are, it’s saying quite a lot.
