The Reversible Self

The cursor hovers over the dropdown.

"Doesn't fit." "Changed my mind." "Item not as described." "Other."

The option you need isn't there. There's no checkbox for "I regret who I was when I bought this." No field for "I wore it once and the magic didn't transfer." Nothing that captures the truth: "I thought this would make me someone, and it didn't, and now I need it gone."

So you click "doesn't fit." Everyone does. I've done it three times this month.

The dropdown knows. It was designed to know. The options aren't data collection — they're alibis, pre-written and waiting, because the system understands you'll need one.

Let me tell you about a study that ruined something for me.

In 2002, psychologists Daniel Gilbert and Jane Ebert ran an experiment with photography students.¹ Each student created two prints they loved, then had to give one away. Half the students were told: "Your decision is final." The other half were told: "You can swap anytime in the next few days."

You'd think the second group would be happier. They had options. They had freedom. They had the exit door.

They weren't happier. They were measurably less satisfied with their chosen print than the students who couldn't change their minds.¹

Here's the part that ruined me: when asked which condition they'd prefer, most people chose the reversible one.¹ We actively want what makes us less happy. We demand the option that diminishes our satisfaction.

Gilbert called it "the psychological immune system."² When a decision is irreversible, your brain gets to work. It rationalizes. It finds reasons to love what you're stuck with. It adjusts your preferences to match your reality. But when the decision can be undone? The immune system never activates. You stay in limbo. The item remains provisional. You never fully own it.

I need you to understand what this means.

Every purchase you make with a "free returns" badge stays psychologically provisional. The item is in your closet but not in your life. You're keeping it, technically, but you haven't committed. The return window is a deadline for a decision you keep not making.

In a 2022 consumer survey reported by Narvar, 63% of shoppers said they "bracket" — ordering multiple sizes or styles with the intention of returning most of them.³ Fifteen percent said bracketing is "just how they shop now."³

You might think this is about fit. It isn't.

One vendor reports up to ~80% lower bracketing among users of its size tool compared to non-users.⁴ Which means a residual persists even when size uncertainty is addressed.⁴ That residual may reflect factors beyond size uncertainty — preference exploration, identity signalling, or simple habit. You're not just trying on clothes. You're trying on versions of a person you might become, with a safety net that ensures you never have to land.

BNPL completes the architecture: research from the Central Bank of Ireland shows it's associated with a 22.2% higher likelihood of spending on a discretionary product (and ~4.4% higher average spend), consistent with "mental accounting" mechanisms — an inflated sense of available funds.⁵ The you who clicks "buy" and the you who pays in four installments have never met. Consequence becomes someone else's problem.

I want to name what we're living in.

This is The Reversible Self — an infrastructure designed around your right to never commit. Free returns. Free shipping. Easy exchanges. Buy now, pay later. Try before you buy. Every friction removed, every exit widened, every decision made provisional.

You can spot it when you're keeping something not because you want it, but because the return window hasn't closed yet. When the countdown timer in your email feels less like customer service and more like a dare. When you realize the item has been sitting in the corner, tags still on, neither worn nor returned — Schrodinger's purchase.

The infrastructure isn't customer service. It's permission architecture. Permission to fill the cart without becoming the person who bought what's in it.

The returns problem is real. UK online non-food returns were forecast to tip ~£27.3bn in 2024.⁶ In UK fashion, the returns process in 2022 was estimated to generate ~750,000 tonnes CO₂ and see ~23 million garments sent to landfill or incineration.⁷ In UK online non-food retail, "serial returners" are ~11% of customers and generate ~24% of returns.⁶

Retailers are starting to charge. ASOS introduced a £3.95 return fee for high return-rate customers (effective 8 October 2024). H&M increased UK online return fees to £2.95 from 3 February 2025 (from £1.99), with store returns and faulty items excluded. Amazon ended its "Prime Try Before You Buy" program on 31 January 2025 — even they couldn't make explicit reversibility work.

But nobody's saying the obvious thing: the returns weren't a bug. They were the product. The exit enables the entry. Without the return option, many of those purchases would never happen. Retailers didn't build generous policies that got abused. They built an infrastructure of non-commitment because non-commitment generates sales.

The best defense is this: returns are essential consumer protection. You can't touch, try, or smell quality through a screen. Sizing is inconsistent. Photos deceive. Without the ability to reverse purchases, e-commerce couldn't function. Returns address information asymmetry and build trust.⁸

That's true. I believe it. Returns serve a legitimate function.

But consumer protection doesn't explain why reversibility makes us less satisfied. It doesn't explain why people bracket even when they know their size. It doesn't explain why 32% of UK shoppers have wardrobed — worn something and returned it — with the number rising to 43% among under-34s.⁹ It doesn't explain why the dropdown provides "doesn't fit" when research shows consumers routinely return under false pretenses.¹⁰

Consumer protection explains the policy. It doesn't explain the psychology. Both are true at once: the infrastructure is necessary, and you're using it to avoid becoming someone.

We've been here before, you and I.

You brought the permission slip into the store — the tote bag, the one good deed, the small green gesture that said "I'm one of the good ones." That was 031.

The brand handed you the alibi — the "sustainable materials" tab, the certification badge, the pre-written excuse you could whisper to yourself at checkout. That was 032.

And now you see the architecture underneath. The whole system was designed so you never had to decide. Not about the product. About yourself.

I don't have a fix for this.

I'm not going to tell you to give up free returns. I haven't. I'm not going to tell you to stop bracketing. I can't. The infrastructure is convenient, and convenience wins, and we are tired, and the return label is right there, pre-paid.

Here's what Gilbert and Ebert found: you would be more satisfied if you couldn't send it back.¹ Not because the product would be better. Because your brain would finally commit. Your psychological immune system would kick in and start the work of making peace with what you chose.

The return window keeps the immune system dormant. The item stays provisional. You stay provisional. Reversible consumption produces the reversible self — someone who's always almost-deciding, always keeping options open, never quite landing.

We've been mapping the inner bargain. The permission you bring. The alibi you select. The infrastructure that holds it all together.

Now you can see the walls.

You're still inside. So am I. The dropdown is still there, waiting, patient, with its pre-written lies ready for the next return.

Seeing is something. Recognizing the architecture is something. Knowing that the exit door you insist on is the thing keeping you from being satisfied with what's inside — that's something.

Maybe next time you'll catch yourself hovering over the dropdown. Maybe you'll notice the lie forming before you click it. Maybe you'll ask: would I be happier if I couldn't send it back?

You probably still will. I probably still will.

But at least we'll know why.