Dorothy Harper Facebook ad: “DO NOT buy from Mae & Rose until you read this.”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

2040379669896071

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, Messenger, WhatsApp and Threads

Relaunches

0

Niche

Jewelry & Watches

How we count

Ad text

Whoever runs the ads for Mae & Rose, I hope you're happy. You've officially shown me that bracelet more times than I've seen my own grandchildren this year. For three months now, those two women have followed me everywhere. Facebook. Instagram. My email. Somehow my daughter's iPad. Every time I picked up my phone, there they were, at that little workbench, promising me my body back. And every single time, I thought the exact same thing. Give me a break. It's a bracelet. Look — I'm 58 years old. I wasn't born yesterday. And when something chases me around the internet for three straight months, I know exactly what it is. It's a sales pitch. So then how did I end up here — writing this, wearing one, with a drawer full of them waiting to be gifted? Let me back it up. For the last few years, my body had been quietly turning against me. Stiff joints when I got out of bed. Energy that died by two in the afternoon. And nights where I'd lie there wide awake at 3am, staring at the ceiling for no reason at all. And believe me, I tried everything. HRT. Magnesium, collagen, D3, omega-3, ashwagandha. Turmeric in everything. A sauna blanket. A special pillow a podcast swore by. Two different mattresses. I have a whole cabinet of things that were going to fix me and didn't. So no — I was not about to believe that a piece of metal from some women on the internet would do what all of that couldn't. Until one night, I cracked. It was almost 3am. I was awake again, staring at the ceiling again, scrolling my phone in the dark like an idiot — and there they were. Again. Mae & Rose. 80% off. 30-day money-back guarantee. And I remember thinking, fine. FINE. I'll order the stupid bracelet, nothing will happen, I'll send it back, and I will finally get to scroll past you in peace. Because I didn't buy it believing. I bought it because I was tired, it was discounted, and there was nothing to lose except the argument. Then it arrived. And I'll be honest with you, because I promised I'd tell you the parts that make me look stupid. I opened the box and actually said "oh" out loud. It's beautiful. Genuinely. Solid, heavy, real copper — hammered by hand, and you can tell. It looks like something made by a person who cares, not something that fell off a factory line. And you know what I did with that information? Nothing. I doubled down. Because I didn't order it to be pretty. I ordered it for the miracle. So I put it on thinking, fine, at least it's a nice piece of jewelry — because that's all it's ever going to be. Week one, nothing. I felt ridiculous. I actually thought, there it is, I knew it. But somewhere in the second week, things started going quiet. I got out of bed one morning and realized I'd just... stood up. No bracing on the nightstand, no negotiating with my own body. Then I made it through a whole afternoon without wanting to lie down. Then I realized I'd been sleeping through the night — and I couldn't even tell you when that started. So naturally, I decided it was a coincidence. Because that's how my brain works. Bracelets don't fix bodies. So it had to be the weather, or the new sheets, or luck. So I took it off. Just to prove it was nothing. By day three, the stiffness was back in the mornings. By day five, I hit the afternoon wall so hard I napped in my car in a parking lot. And by the end of the week, I was wide awake at 3am, staring at that same ceiling — finally admitting it wasn't the weather. It wasn't the sheets. It was the bracelet I'd spent three months making fun of. So I put it back on. And within days, everything went quiet again. Now, I'm not going to tell you it's a magic metal. I honestly don't know what it is. Maybe it's the copper. Maybe it's something our grandmothers understood that we got too smart for. I've stopped caring what it is — I just know what happens when it's off. And I know I'm not crazy, because I started giving them away. One to my best friend, who complains about her knees the way I complained about my mornings. One to my neighbor, who hasn't slept properly since her husband passed. One to my daughter, who's only 34 but sits at a desk all day and moves like she's my age. And they all come back to me saying some version of the same sentence. "I didn't want to believe it. But..." So here's my actual problem now, and the reason I'm writing this. I never stopped seeing their ads. They still follow me everywhere. Except now, every time one shows up, I end up buying another piece. Because they're genuinely beautiful, because there's always someone in my life whose mornings sound like mine used to — and at 80% off, I can't even use the price as an excuse. They were a lot easier to resist when I thought they were a scam. So if their ads have been chasing you the way they chased me — if you've been rolling your eyes at those two women for months while your body keeps waking up stiff, running out early, and staring at ceilings — do what I did. Order the stupid bracelet. It's 80% off, and you get 30 days either way. If you're the one person nothing changes for, send it back, get every penny — and you finally get to be right about the whole thing. That was my plan too. That was five bracelets ago. 👉 https://maeroseboutique.com/collections/copper-jewelry-2 P.S. — Whatever you do, don't test the idea with a ten-dollar copper bracelet off Amazon. Nine out of ten are brass with a coat of copper paint that does nothing. That junk is the exact reason women like us think this doesn't work. If you're going to prove somebody wrong, at least do it with the real thing.

Where the ad sends people

maeroseboutique.com

DO NOT buy from Mae & Rose until you read this.

Mae & Rose Jewels