Becca Fisher Facebook ad: “Feel the difference”

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For 22 years, I've held a lip brush six inches from women's mouths. I know something about them that their husbands are too kind to say. And I said nothing. Not even to my own sister. My husband told me to let it go. I closed my studio after last wedding season. No more brides. No more 6 AM call times. Nobody left to offend. But I'm 46 years old, and I've watched too many women carry a secret into their own family photos. ⠀ So here it is. ⠀ When you do bridal makeup, you're closer to a woman's face than almost anyone in her life. Closer than her husband, most days. You do her lips last, so you're right there when she talks, when she laughs, when she breathes out after the first look. ⠀ And after a few hundred weddings, I noticed something. ⠀ The moms. The bridesmaids. The aunts. Women who'd done everything right. Brushed that morning. Used mouthwash in the hotel bathroom. Gum in their clutch. And breath that reached me before their words did. ⠀ You learn the signs. The quick hand to the mouth when they laugh. The "sorry, I had coffee." The way they'd ask me, very quietly, while I was lining their lips: ⠀ "Is my breath okay?" And I'd reach for the bowl of mints I kept on my station, and smile, and say, "You're perfect, hon. Here." ⠀ That bowl was the most-used thing in my kit for 22 years. ⠀ I want to tell you about the two women I still think about. ⠀ It was 2004. My second season. Her name was Colleen. 52. Mother of the bride. ⠀ While I was doing the bride's lashes, the bride whispered to me, "Can you please give my mom a mint before our photos? Don't say it's from me." ⠀ So when Colleen sat in my chair, I held out the bowl and said, "Mint?" ⠀ She looked at the bowl. She looked at her daughter across the room. And I watched her understand. ⠀ She took one. She said, "Thank you." And in every photo I've seen from that wedding, Colleen is smiling with her lips closed. ⠀ I went home and started a list on the back of my kit inventory sheet. ⠀ Not for anyone. Just for me. Every woman who asked me that question, or who I could tell was carrying it. Her age. What she was using. What I handed her. ⠀ Twelve years later, a bridesmaid made me want to put down my brushes. ⠀ It was 2016. Her name was Brianna. 33. Maid of honor. ⠀ In three hours of getting ready, she went into the hotel bathroom to use her blue mouthwash five times. The kind that burns. Her lipstick kept cracking, because her lips were so dry. I reapplied it four times. ⠀ Right before the ceremony, she asked me, "Can I stand at the end of the row in pictures?" I asked why. ⠀ "So nobody has to stand next to me for long." ⠀ She was doing everything anyone ever told her. And she was hiding at the end of the row at her best friend's wedding. ⠀ I stood in that hotel room after they left and understood something. The more she rinsed, the drier she got. The drier she got, the worse it was. Everything she'd been told to do was making it harder. ⠀ I added a new column to my list that night. Whether their mouthwash burned. ⠀ By the time I closed my studio, the list had 640 names. ⠀ 640 women I handed a mint to. And said nothing. ⠀ Here's where it stopped being a list, and became something I couldn't live with. ⠀ My sister, Kate. ⠀ She's 39. A realtor. Two boys, a husband named Tom, and a car that's basically a coffee cup holder with wheels. She is the most put-together person I know. Brushes after every meal. Carries floss in her purse. ⠀ Last spring, she and Tom were planning a vow renewal for their 15th anniversary. Kate asked me to do her makeup. ⠀ At the trial, I leaned in with the lip brush, and she grabbed my wrist. ⠀ "Be honest with me. You're the only one who will be. Is it my breath? Tom turns his head when he kisses me now." ⠀ And do you know what I said? To my own little sister? ⠀ "You're fine, Katie. Just keep mints in your purse." ⠀ I held out the bowl. ⠀ I want you to sit with that. I had 640 names on a sheet telling me mints weren't the answer. And when my own sister asked me the one question, I handed her the bowl. ⠀ She took my advice. Mints every hour. The strongest mouthwash on the shelf, twice a day. Charcoal toothpaste her friend swore by. ⠀ It got worse. ⠀ She stopped hugging clients at closings. She started holding her boys' faces to kiss the tops of their heads. At her oldest son's graduation, she's in the photo with her lips pressed together, half a step behind everyone. ⠀ The vow renewal was eight weeks away. ⠀ I knew exactly what I was looking at. She was about to walk down an aisle toward a man who turned his head. ⠀ So I did what I knew. I bought her fancy breath spray. And a tongue scraper. ⠀ Four weeks. Nothing changed. ⠀ I was the right person to notice. I was not the right person to fix it. ⠀ So I called Nadia. ⠀ Nadia and I have been best friends since high school. She's been a pharmacist for 25 years. She's watched women buy gum, mints and mouthwash in the same basket every week of her career. ⠀ I told her about Kate. About the mints. About my list. ⠀ She was quiet. Then she said, "You've been handing out air fresheners for 22 years." ⠀ "Nadia." ⠀ "I'm serious. Grab a pen." ⠀ I grabbed a pen. ⠀ "Where do you think the smell is coming from?" ⠀ "Her teeth? Her stomach?" ⠀ "Usually neither. Most everyday bad breath comes from the back of the tongue, between the teeth and along the gumline. Places a toothbrush barely touches. Bacteria live there, the kind that do best with very little oxygen, and they give off sulfur gases. That's the smell." ⠀ "So brushing more—" ⠀ "Cleans the teeth. Barely touches where it lives." ⠀ "And the mouthwash?" ⠀ "The burning kind uses alcohol. Alcohol can dry your mouth out. And saliva is your mouth's own rinse. Dry mouth, faster smell. Plus cracked lipstick, as you've noticed for 22 years." ⠀ I thought about Brianna. Four reapplications. ⠀ "And the mints. The spray. The charcoal." ⠀ "Covers. Every one of them. Twenty minutes and it's back." ⠀ Then she told me what to look for. Four things. ⠀ "One. Hydrogen peroxide. It releases oxygen, and those bacteria tend to struggle with oxygen around. That's cleaning, not covering." ⠀ "Two. No alcohol. You want her mouth wet." ⠀ "Three. Gentle enough for every day. The smell comes back every day." ⠀ "Four. A real rinse. Sixty full seconds, so it reaches the back of the tongue." ⠀ "And honestly? A taste she'll actually want to use. Otherwise it just sits under the sink." ⠀ Then she told me something that changed how I saw the whole thing. ⠀ "You can check it yourself, you know. The spoon test. Scrape the back of your tongue gently with a clean spoon. Wait five seconds. Smell the spoon. That's roughly what everyone else gets when you talk." ⠀ I got off the phone and did the spoon test on myself in my own bathroom. ⠀ I'm not going to describe it. I'll just tell you I did it twice to be sure. ⠀ Then I drove to Kate's. ⠀ I told her everything. The list. Colleen. Brianna. And that I was sorry. ⠀ She did the spoon test at her kitchen sink, and put her hand over her mouth, and started crying. "Twenty years," she said. "Nobody would just tell me." ⠀ The next day I did the obvious thing. I went to a cute little boutique downtown and bought her a beautiful glass bottle of all-natural mint mouthwash. Twenty-eight dollars. ⠀ A week later, she did the spoon test again. Same. ⠀ I called Nadia. "Did you check it for peroxide?" ⠀ I hadn't. It was peppermint oil and water. A very pretty air freshener. ⠀ "There are a handful that get all four right," Nadia said. "The one I point women to is Lumine Organics. Low, daily-strength peroxide, no alcohol, peppermint, eucalyptus and thyme. And they give you 60 days to try it, and your money back if it doesn't work. You don't even send the bottle back." ⠀ I ordered it that night. $59.90. Less than I'd spent on breath spray, mints, charcoal and a boutique bottle in one month. ⠀ Kate started the day it arrived. Sixty seconds, morning and night, after brushing. ⠀ Week 1: Her mouth felt clean, not burning. She did the spoon test on day seven. "Better," she texted. "Not gone. Better." ⠀ Week 2: She sold a house and hugged the buyers at the closing. She texted me a picture of the SOLD sign with one word. "HUGGED." ⠀ Week 3: The spoon test came back clean. She sent me a voice memo that was mostly screaming. ⠀ Week 5: She stopped carrying mints. Tom found the last tin in her car and asked if she wanted it. She said, "Nope." ⠀ Week 7: Tom kissed her good morning, in the kitchen, before coffee. He didn't turn his head. ⠀ Week 8: The vow renewal. ⠀ I did her makeup. I leaned in with the lip brush, six inches away, the way I'd done 3,000 times. ⠀ I didn't reach for the bowl. ⠀ I'd left it at home. ⠀ When the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride," Tom held her face in both hands and kissed her like it was their wedding day. ⠀ Their oldest son took the photo. It's on my fridge. ⠀ Kate's smiling with her whole face in every picture from that day. ⠀ And a little bonus she didn't expect: her coffee stains had faded. Lumine whitens, too. ⠀ I started using it myself the same week. The spoon test was humbling. Now it isn't. ⠀ I think about Colleen, smiling with her lips closed in every photo of her daughter's wedding. I think about Brianna at the end of the row. I think about 640 names on the back of an inventory sheet. ⠀ And I think about how close my own sister came to walking down an aisle toward a man who turned his head. Because I handed her a bowl of mints. ⠀ That's why I'm telling you now. ⠀ The mints you pop before every meeting. The gum someone quietly offers. The "sorry, I had coffee." The lipstick that keeps cracking. The kiss that lands on your forehead. The hand that comes up when you laugh. The photos where you stand at the end of the row. ⠀ Those aren't separate things. ⠀ They're signs. ⠀ Your teeth are probably fine. That's the cruel part. It was never your teeth. ⠀ It's the back of your tongue. Between your teeth. Along your gums. And mints, sprays and burning rinses were never built to reach it. ⠀ What reaches it is simple. Something that cleans instead of covers, gently enough to use every day, without drying you out. ⠀ That's Lumine Organics. Low, daily-strength hydrogen peroxide. No alcohol. Peppermint, eucalyptus and thyme. Sixty seconds after you brush. ⠀ 60 days to try it. If your breath doesn't change, you get your money back and keep the bottle. ⠀ Do the spoon test tonight. Then do it again in two weeks. ⠀ I spent 22 years handing women a mint. ⠀ I'm handing you the truth instead. ⠀ Stacy, 46, bridal makeup artist ⠀ 👉 lumineorganics.com/products/whiteningmouthwash ⠀ P.S. Most everyday bad breath starts in the mouth, and that's what this is about. But if yours keeps going no matter what you try, please see your dentist or doctor. Sometimes it's the tonsils, sinuses or reflux, and that deserves a real look. ⠀ P.P.S. Don't judge it in the first few days. Kate's spoon test was only "better" at week one. It came back clean at week three. Give it the full 60 days. That's what the guarantee is for. ⠀ P.P.P.S. The guarantee is the part I'd think about. In 22 years, nobody ever offered me a refund on a bowl of mints. This one says: 60 days, your money back if your breath doesn't change, and you keep the bottle. 👉 lumineorganics.com/products/whiteningmouthwash

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Feel the difference

Lumine Organics