Is This the Best Sales Strategy Ever? They Said: “Please Do Not Enter.”

Reverse psychology in sales just might work. Marketing lessons from a multi-headed flamingo and an infuriating Christmas Eve.

When you come face-to-face with 36 flamingos sewn artfully into a giant throne, enveloped in a halo of soft, cloud-like feathers, with threatening beaks erect, ready to pierce the behind of the courageous majesty who dares sit upon them, you might do a double-take.

When a cursory glance to the left and right reveals that these flamingos are quite at home in this setting, flanked by metallic frog heads-turned-purses, robot backpacks, and polar bear benches, you might even be moved to investigate.

This is exactly how Christmas Eve of 2020 started out for me…

Well, the real story began on Christmas Eve’s eve (December 23), at around 6 pm, right when the mall was closing.

My fiance and I had largely avoided holiday shopping this year since public places and unnecessary crowds were not exactly recommended during the pandemic. We allowed ourselves just one small break from our reclusive shopping fast: a few hours at the mall when only last-minute shoppers or holiday employees would still be around.

Having arrived sometime after 3 or 4 pm, we didn’t realize just how soon those shops would be closing, so it was a mad dash to cram all the retail therapy we had been missing this year into the next couple of hours.

The problem with shopping when you don’t need anything, and perhaps a consequence of the oversaturation of ads on social media and endless visual stimulation through screens 24/7, is that nothing was really exciting us anymore.

It felt as if we had seen it all. Even at our beautifully curated mall, with stores ranging from the bargain-friendly to the most high-end designer names, nothing really packed a punch like shopping (or even window browsing) used to…

Until we stumbled upon the most perplexing display we had ever seen and perhaps the even more perplexing marketing strategy behind it.

You already know about the flamingo throne, the frog-head purses, the polar bear bench, etc.

What you don’t yet know is how a locked door and ambiguous name nearly convinced both of us to shell out $11,000 to have that flamingo chair (not sponsored — I promise) ordered and delivered to our home pronto.

It was somewhere between 5 and 6 pm, and we were making our final rounds before leaving the mall…most stores were still open for the next thirty minutes or so.

We were actually looking for a restroom at this point, and being at a new mall in a new city (to us), we weren’t familiar with the layout and had to keep our eyes peeled for every store name and sign.

We stumbled upon a long hallway that was either a restroom, an exit, or an employee-only indoor alleyway…we’ll never know which since this is where we got sidetracked.

Just before walking down the hallway to hopefully find a bathroom or a way out, we noticed a little boy and his dad, staring into a window display. They were both in a trance, and they seemed to be endlessly ruminating on the object of their gaze. Even the five-year-old was mesmerized into silence.

Thanks to the laws of FOMO, we too felt compelled to follow their gaze, only to come face-to-face with the famous flamingo chair you now know so well.

The sign above the flamingo chair window display read “Please Do Not Enter.”

Well, that’s annoying.

The one thing in this mall we actually might be interested in won’t even let us in for a closer look…

Or would they?

Behind the glass that separated us from the flamingo throne, the lights were on and we could peer in and see various rooms, leading deeper into a jungle of equally strange creations.

Was this a store?

Was this a museum?

Was this a child’s play place, full of eccentric animal-related furniture, toys, and accessories?

It was nearly impossible to tell, and the growing confusion only exacerbated our frustration.

We wanted to enter.

In fact, the mall was still open for another ten or so minutes, so if this were truly a store or event open to the public, there must be an entry door somewhere, right?

We walked around the corner of the store, trying to find an alternate doorway in, but had no luck.

Finally, my fiance decided to throw caution to the wind and try to open the door (yes, there was a glass door next to the window display, but we didn’t even try to open it, thanks to the very direct signage, “Please Do Not Enter”).

Just then, the lights went off. We saw a person in one of the backrooms scamper by and then disappear. The door was locked.

What in the world was going on?

Had we triggered some lights-off alarm by attempting to open the locked door? Was the woman inside an intruder who had somehow picked a lock and snuck her way in?

Were we actually going crazy at this point and dreaming the whole thing up?

It was strange, to say the least.

The mesmerized boy and his dad looked at us and laughed nervously as the lights went off. They had been timidly (and eagerly) watching my fiance grip the door handle since they too were curious of exactly what stood behind and if we’d ever be allowed in to discover for ourselves.

Well, now that we’d stalled long enough, the mall was officially starting to close. We left, feeling defeated and deceived.

What WAS that room?

Thanks to Google, it wouldn’t take long to find out.

Once we got in the car, we looked up “Please Do Not Enter” and “flamingo chair” on our phones. Low and behold, it was a real thing. In fact, it was a little bit of everything that we thought it was.

Well, it was everything except a sign telling us to keep out.

Please Do Not Enter was the name of the store!

Had we arrived ten minutes earlier or been a little more assertive with our door-pulling (before they turned off the lights and closed for the night), perhaps we would have gotten the first-hand experience that day.

However, thanks to the groupthink we shared with the mesmerized boy and his father and the ambiguous name signage, our Please Do Not Enter journey would not end there…and perhaps that’s exactly what they wanted.

That night, I probably spent over an hour wading through their collections online, salivating over limited-edition pieces (with only a handful produced worldwide), and convincing myself that we suddenly needed that $11,000 flamingo chair.

But here’s the real reason I suddenly needed that flamingo chair: Because they almost didn’t let me have it.

That store told me one thing: you’re not welcome here.

You’re not allowed in.

This isn’t for you.

Go away.

And that was all the fuel I needed to defy their instructions.

You won’t let me walk in and buy your flamingo chair? Watch me.

You think I can’t figure out that you have a website where I can buy any and everything you have in your special, exclusive, “Please Do Not Enter”, closing-too-early store? Think again.

And that’s exactly when I realized just how absurd I sounded.

I was desperate to hand over money — and a LOT of it — to this company, simply to prove to them that I could. It was the most brilliant reverse psychology I have ever seen or experienced in marketing, and I was truly in awe.

In fact, I’d love to say that was the moment I realized this was a great marketing case study and forgot all about my interest in making a purchase, but that would be a lie…

We did end up going back the next day, on Christmas Eve, and I was finally able to step foot into the most exclusive store at South Coast Plaza mall…

The salespeople were quite eccentric and perfectly fitting the store’s theme and aesthetic, almost as if they were merely an extension of the artist-curated collections as well. One futuristic-looking saleswoman with a pastel purple pixie cut, who looked like she stepped right out of a cartoon that I just couldn’t place, almost convinced me to make my first in-store purchase.

They had certain items in glass boxes, that required locks to open, making them all the more intriguing.

One of those glass boxes contained the very last of a limited-edition metallic robot mini-backpack. There were only ever 150 produced, and this was the last one in the entire company. It was not available online and would not be there for long…

The backpack was between five and six hundred dollars, and I was seriously contemplating it.

I decided to take one last lap around the mall before making a final decision on my one-of-a-kind purchase from my new favorite store.

Luckily, I was not alone — retail addicts and people easily influenced by salespeople and FOMO should really never shop alone.

My fiance accompanied me on the rumination lap, and leading up to decision time, he snapped me back into reality: I didn’t even particularly like robots…or backpacks.

I mean, it depends. Robots are fine, I guess; they’re cool if they’re useful. However, a robot-shaped mini-backpack with absolutely no unique functionality, a suboptimal size and shape to carry anything other than my phone and keys, and a $500-$600 price tag, only justified by the supposed “exclusivity” of the limited edition collection didn’t necessarily make the backpack the perfect purchase for me.

He asked me, point-blank: Do you want this backpack as your holiday gift?

Honestly, as a business owner who tries to assess every purchase for the potential future return on investment, this one was a little hard to justify.

Perhaps, if I thought about the backpack as an investment, I could make a case for it.

I could keep it in pristine condition for the next few years, sitting in its dustbag in my closet, completely untouched. I could believe or hope that the exclusivity of the company or the limited nature of the robot backpack collection would make it increasingly valuable in the coming years. Then, one day in the next five, ten, or twenty years, I could put it online and try to sell it on eBay or Poshmark or the like, and finally realize the massive price appreciation that would make the initial purchase a success.

Here’s the problem: even if the backpack did appreciate in value by 10x or so in the next ten years, we’re looking at $5,000 to $6,000, assuming it’s still pristine, the company’s name holds some value, and there’s a real buyer for the particular piece…

That’s a lot of assumptions for a product I never intended as an investment item in the first place.

Okay, fine then — why don’t I just buy it for myself, call it a sunk cost, and enjoy away? Forget about the ROI.

You see, I could…but that kind of makes me stop wanting it altogether.

I only wanted the backpack when I knew or thought it was super limited edition, unique, and valuable…

However, if the obscurity of the brand means that no one will even know it’s valuable and I won’t make a return on the investment, the backpack is starting to look a lot less attractive.

So, as you can probably guess, I didn’t get the backpack…and I’m not sad about it.

In fact, I’m glad that we did have this strange encounter with Please Do Not Enter and their even stranger marketing philosophy, since I think it taught me quite a few things…(as well as added to what could have been an otherwise dull retail shopping experience)

Here’s what I learned about Please Do Not Enter and what you can take away as a consumer and a marketer:

• FOMO works (the boy and his dad were even better marketing than the store itself since their confusion and interest is what made us take notice in the first place)
• Making people angry is okay (it might even make them come back if it’s done the right way…without offending them too gravely, of course)
• Salespeople can add to the aesthetic of the brand and make for an even more immersive in-store shopping experience (our futuristic Zenon did a great job, and if I were any other customer, she likely would have secured a sale)
• Consumers are very bored, tired, and disappointed with ads, products, and storefronts that all look the same. You’re going to have to be radically different to get them to take notice and spend money.
• Limited edition works and, as marketers, we shouldn’t be afraid of it (it only works if you actually mean it and can prove the product is truly limited or one-of-a-kind)

Those takeaways might have come across as pretty marketer-focused but as consumers, I think we should be aware of what’s working (or not) as well.

Our actions, as consumers, are exactly what lead brands to make drastic marketing decisions, like the Please Do Not Enter approach.

• As you give in to FOMO, you tell a brand that’s what you like.
• As you spring for the last of the limited edition items, you reinforce the idea that more items need to be offered on a limited-edition basis, maybe even at a more premium price point as well.
• As you walk (or scroll) past the basic “nice” ads and window displays, ignoring every piece of marketing content these brands put in front of you, you tell them you need something different; something a little less basic and maybe a little less “nice”.

Businesses are altering their marketing (and their products) in reaction to consumers’ behavior. If we don’t like the direction those businesses are heading, we may want to consider the consumer behavior that has led them there in the first place.

If businesses find that inflammatory ads or the most confusing window displays you’ve ever seen are the things getting clicks, views, walk-ins, and sales these days, then that’s exactly the feedback they’re acting on…

For now, it seems the shock of the $11,000 flamingo chair is where we are.

So, here’s the final question I’m still left contemplating:

Is Please Do Not Enter a marketing hack too brilliant to ignore and the new way to psychologically flirt with and “neg” our customers into purchasing…or is toying with customer emotions akin to in-real-life clickbait that will only leave people irritated and fed up, sworn off our brand forever?