Susan Brown Facebook ad: “Sale Ends Tonight”

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I'm a private tutor for a family in the Hamptons. I drive out three times a week to teach their daughter algebra at a kitchen table that costs more than my car. The stuff rich people spend money on would shock you. But there's one thing I actually copied for my own apartment. I've been tutoring for 5 years. Mostly regular families. Kitchen tables in apartments. Dining rooms in houses that look like mine. Normal people with normal budgets who want their kids to do better in school. Then last year I got a referral. A family in East Hampton. The mom found me through another tutor who couldn't take the job. She called me on a Tuesday and said, "Can you come three times a week? Our daughter needs help with math. We'll pay $150 an hour." $150 an hour. I was charging $45. I said yes before she finished the sentence. The first time I drove out from my apartment in Riverhead I almost turned around. Not because of the tutoring. Because the house didn't look real. The driveway was lined with old hedgerows so tall you couldn't see over them. It curved for what felt like a quarter mile before the house appeared. Stone facade. Black shutters. A front door that weighed more than me. The garden looked like someone painted it. The lawn went on forever — that deep green you only see on lawns that have full-time people caring for them. The mom opened the door. Her name was Caroline. Blonde. Early 50s. Cashmere cardigan even though it was September and still warm. Barefoot on a marble floor. "You must be the tutor. Come in. Shoes off, please." Shoes off. On a floor I was afraid to walk on. The kitchen had a marble island so large I thought it was a dining table. A La Cornue range — I didn't know what it was then but I've since learned they cost $50,000. A wine fridge behind glass holding bottles I couldn't pronounce. A bowl of lemons on the counter that looked arranged by an artist. The pantry was bigger than my kitchen. Organized with a label maker. Every shelf sorted by category. The family room had a Steinway piano that nobody played. Their daughter told me later it came with the house. A $100,000 piano that came with the house like a dishwasher. Fresh flowers everywhere. Not bouquets. Arrangements. The kind someone spent an hour on. I later learned they spend $1,400 a week on flowers. A florist drives from the city every Tuesday and Friday. The flowers in their guest bathroom cost more than my car payment. There was art on the walls I was scared to look at too closely. A small painting in the hallway that I Googled one night — an artist whose work sells at auction for six figures. Hanging in a hallway. Next to the coat hooks. The closet upstairs — I saw it once when the daughter took me to her room — was a room. Caroline's bags were on lit shelves. Hermès. Chanel. A Birkin behind glass. The daughter pointed at it casually and said "Mom doesn't even use that one. It just sits there." They fly private to Aspen. There's a Range Rover in the garage that hasn't moved since I started coming. The kids' playroom has a rug from Morocco that cost $4,500 and gets marker on it daily. And most of it I didn't understand. I sat at their kitchen table three times a week teaching their 14-year-old how to solve for x, surrounded by things that cost more than my annual income. Like visiting a movie set and then driving home to my apartment in Riverhead where the kitchen faucet drips and the shower pressure changes when someone flushes. But none of that is why I'm telling you this. I'm telling you because of the bathroom. Caroline always told me to make myself at home. "Use anything you need. The bathroom is down the hall." She meant it. Rich people who are actually comfortable with their money don't guard it. They just live in it. So I used the bathroom. Three times a week. For almost a year. Nice bathroom. Marble. Heated floor. Diptyque soap on the vanity — $44 for a bar of hand soap. Then one afternoon, about three months in, I washed my hands and reached for the towel. And I stopped. I've dried my hands thousands of times. You don't think about it. You reach, you dry, you move on. But this time my hands didn't want to move on. The towel was heavy. Dense. Soft in a way that didn't make sense for a hand towel. Not the soft you feel at Target. Something deeper. Like someone chose this towel the way you'd choose a piece of jewelry. I stood there in Caroline's bathroom drying my hands for way too long. Pressing the towel against my palms. Against my face. Closing my eyes like a crazy person in someone else's bathroom at 4pm on a Tuesday. Because it felt that different. I drove home that night to Riverhead. Walked into my bathroom. Picked up my hand towel. Target. Thin. Rough. That scratchy feeling I'd stopped noticing because I'd accepted it as normal. Why does her bathroom feel like a spa and mine feels like a gas station? After that I noticed every single time. Three times a week. Every time I dried my hands. Every time the feeling hit me and then vanished 45 minutes later when I was back in my apartment with my rough towels and my dripping faucet. So one afternoon Caroline was making tea while I packed up after the session. And I asked. Casually. Like it was nothing. "Hey, random question. Where do you get your towels?" She didn't even look up from the kettle. "Oh, those are from Onuia. They supply luxury hotels and spas. That's where all the nice hotels get theirs." Like it was nothing. Like she was telling me where she buys tea. "Everyone knows about them?" I asked. She looked at me. Smiled. Not mean. Just the way someone smiles when you discover something they've known forever. "Well. A certain kind of person does, I guess." A certain kind of person. That sentence sat in my stomach the rest of the drive home. On the LIE in my Honda Civic. Back to my apartment in Riverhead. Where no one has ever called me a certain kind of person. She told me they're 600 to 800 GSM premium cotton with a refined terry weave. She said that's what makes them feel so different from anything at Target or Costco or Pottery Barn. The refined terry weave keeps the fibers loose and soft instead of twisting them tight the way regular towels do. That's why regular towels feel okay for a week and then turn to sandpaper. And that's why these stay soft wash after wash. They actually get softer over time. She poured her tea and said something I think about every day. "People assume the expensive things in this house are the art and the furniture. They're not. The expensive things are the things that touch my skin. The towels. The sheets. The things nobody sees. Because those are the things I actually feel." I went home and sat on my bed staring at my phone. The website was open. And I almost didn't order. Because who spends that kind of money on towels? Me? A tutor from Riverhead who charges $45 an hour except when she's lucky enough to charge $150? I buy my towels at Target in a three-pack. That's who I am. But something wouldn't let it go. That feeling in Caroline's bathroom. That weight in my hands. I ordered a set. Put it on my credit card. Felt guilty immediately. They arrived four days later. I pulled one out. That same weight. That same density. That same deep softness I'd been feeling three times a week for months. Except now it was in my kitchen. In Riverhead. I took a shower that night specifically to use it. Stepped out. Wrapped it around myself. And I just stood there. Bare feet on cold tile. Steam in the air. My little bathroom with the dripping faucet and the shower that changes pressure when someone flushes. And for the first time, it didn't feel like the worst room in my apartment. It felt like Caroline's bathroom. Not because of marble or heated floors or $44 soap. Because of what was touching my skin. I texted my sister. "I just spent money on towels and I think I'm losing my mind." She called me. "What towels?" "Fancy ones. Like hotel ones." "How fancy?" "Like... I stood in my bathroom after my shower and didn't want to move. Like I was at the Ritz Carlton but I'm standing next to my toilet in Riverhead." Silence. Then: "Send me the link." She ordered a set that night. Three days later she called me back. "I hate you. I can never use my old towels again. I reached for the old one this morning and the second it touched my skin I put it down. What have you done to me?" Within a month my mom had a set. She called me crying. "I've been drying off with rough towels for 30 years. Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I said, "Mom, I found out a month ago." My best friend had a set. My coworker — another tutor — had a set because she used my bathroom on a Saturday and wouldn't leave until I told her. Every single one of them said the same thing. "Why did nobody tell me about this sooner?" And here's the part that made me angry. I did the math one night. Two years of buying $9 Target towels every few months when they go rough. Replacing them. Buying more. The total was more than one set of Onuia. I was spending more money on worse towels and didn't realize because $9 at a time doesn't feel like much until you add it up. Three times a week I drive to a house in the Hamptons where the flowers cost more than my car payment. I sit at a kitchen table worth more than everything in my apartment. I teach algebra surrounded by art that belongs in a museum. And then I drive home. To Riverhead. To my apartment with the dripping faucet. I can't afford the marble island or the La Cornue range or the Birkin behind glass or the $1,400 flowers or the painting in the hallway next to the coat hooks. But I can afford the towels. And the towels are the thing you actually feel. Every single day. They touch your skin more than any painting or any stove or any piano nobody plays. Caroline doesn't use these because she's rich. She uses them because she felt the difference once and never went back. And she told me something that changed how I think about my own bathroom. "The expensive things are the things that touch my skin. The things nobody sees." She was right. The art is for the hallway. The flowers are for the guests. The Birkin is for the shelf. The towels are for her. And now they're for me too. They're running up to 60% off right now with free shipping. 30-day money-back guarantee. The best towel I've ever felt in my life is on a rack in my apartment in Riverhead. It costs less than the bar of soap in Caroline's bathroom. And I'm never going back. onuia.com

Where the ad sends people

onuia.com

Sale Ends Tonight

The softest, thickest towels you'll ever own. Hotel luxury without the hotel price. This is the biggest discount we'll ever offer, up to 60% off, only for Summer's Day.