Susan Brown Facebook ad: “Sale Ends Tonight”

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I'm a nanny for a family in the Hamptons. 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 with this family for three years. The mom is a former fashion editor at Vogue. The dad runs a hedge fund in Manhattan. Two kids. A house that looks like it was ripped out of Architectural Digest. I'm talking a kitchen with a Calacatta marble island bigger than my entire apartment. A La Cornue stove that costs $40,000 and I've never seen anyone cook on it because they have a private chef three nights a week. A living room with two Restoration Hardware sofas nobody sits on because they're "the formal ones." A separate family room with a $12,000 Roche Bobois sectional where the kids eat goldfish crackers and watch Bluey. Fresh flowers in every room. Delivered twice a week from a florist in the city. Peonies, garden roses, ranunculus — I learned the names because the mom corrects you if you call them "the pink ones." I watched them spend $1,400 on flowers that died in six days. The housekeeper threw them out on a Tuesday and new ones arrived on Wednesday like nothing happened. They fly private to Aspen on NetJets. They have a black Range Rover in the driveway that hasn't moved in three weeks because the mom prefers being driven in the Escalade. Their kids' playroom has a $3,000 Persian rug that gets juice spilled on it daily and nobody blinks. The closet in the master bedroom is bigger than my first apartment in Queens. Chanel. Hermès. The Row. Organized by color and season. There's a Birkin on the top shelf that costs more than my car. I know because I Googled it one night when I couldn't sleep. The bathroom has Le Labo soap. Byredo hand cream. A Diptyque candle that costs $185 and smells like fig trees. The shampoo in the guest shower is Oribe. The cotton balls are in a crystal jar from Waterford. And most of it, I don't get it. I really don't. It feels like spending for the sake of spending. Like money is just background noise in their life and they don't even hear it anymore. Like they've run out of normal things to buy so they just keep going deeper into a world where a candle costs $185 and nobody thinks that's insane. But there's one thing I noticed in this house that actually made sense to me. Their towels. I know. I know how that sounds. Out of the Birkin and the NetJets and the $40,000 stove and the $185 candle — the thing that got me was the towels. But let me explain. Because once you understand this, you can't un-understand it. My first week on the job, I was giving the kids a bath. The little one — she's three — was splashing water everywhere and laughing and I was soaked. I reached for a towel to dry her off. And the second I touched it, something felt wrong. Not wrong like bad. Wrong like I had never in my life felt anything like this before. It was heavy. Like actually heavy. Dense in a way that felt expensive in your hands before you even opened it up. And when I wrapped her in it, it was like wrapping her in a cloud. Thick. Warm. Soft in a way that cotton has no business being. She stopped squirming and just kind of melted into it. A three-year-old who fights everything — bath time, bedtime, getting dressed — went completely still because of how the towel felt against her skin. I stood there in their bathroom holding this towel thinking, what is this thing? After the kids were in bed, I went to the guest bathroom to wash my hands. And there they were. The same towels. Hanging on the rack. White. Perfect. Folded like they belonged in a hotel lobby. Not the guest towels that you put out for show. The same ones. Every bathroom. Same towel. I dried my hands and I just stood there. Pressing the towel against my face. In someone else's bathroom. Like a crazy person. Because it felt that different. Like pressing your face into something alive. Something warm. Something that was made for this exact moment. I drove home that night to my apartment in Riverhead. Walked into my bathroom. The overhead light that buzzes. The shower curtain with the mildew spot at the bottom I keep scrubbing. The bath mat from Walmart that's starting to curl at the edges. I picked up my towel. The one from Target I'd had for two years. Thin. Rough. That scratchy feeling that makes you dry off as fast as possible just to get it over with. A few pills forming along the edge. That faint grey tint even though it used to be white. And I thought, why does her bathroom feel like a spa and mine feels like a gas station? Every day after that, I noticed. Every time I washed the kids' hands. Every time I folded laundry — her towels stacked perfectly, heavy and white and thick, next to her Frette sheets and her Pratesi pillowcases. Every time I walked past the master bathroom and saw those towels hanging there — perfect and white and plush — while my towels at home were pilling and grey and felt like dried-out napkins. It started to bother me. Like actually bother me. Not jealous. Something else. More like — why does this exist and I didn't know about it? Why does this woman's three-year-old dry off with a better towel than I've ever owned in my life? What else don't I know about? So one afternoon the mom was in the kitchen making the kids a snack. Cutting up an organic mango on a board that probably cost more than my microwave. And I just asked. Casually. Like it was nothing. "Hey, random question. Where do you get your towels?" She didn't even look up from the cutting board. "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 milk. "Everyone knows about them?" I asked. She looked at me. Smiled. Not mean. Just amused. The way you smile at someone who just discovered something you've known forever. "Well, a certain kind of person does, I guess." A certain kind of person. That sentence sat in my stomach for the rest of the day. While I was making dinner for the kids. While I was folding their laundry. While I was driving home on the LIE in my 2016 Honda Civic with the check engine light on. 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 Bed Bath or wherever normal people buy towels. She said the refined terry weave is the key — it keeps the fibers loose and soft instead of twisting them tight like 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 said she orders them twice a year. Full sets. Doesn't think about it. Like buying groceries. The same way she orders the Oribe shampoo and the Le Labo soap. Just part of maintaining a certain standard. I went home that night and sat on my bed staring at my phone. The website was open. The towels were right there. And I almost didn't order them. Because who spends that kind of money on towels? Me? A nanny from Riverhead with a used Honda and a studio apartment and a Target shower curtain? I buy my towels at Target in a three-pack. That's who I am. That's who I've always been. I thought about the Birkin on the top shelf of her closet. The NetJets account. The $1,400 flowers. The $185 candle. All the things I'll never afford. But then I thought about the towel. The way it felt in my hands. The way the baby went still when I wrapped her in it. The way I stood in the guest bathroom pressing it against my face like I'd discovered something I wasn't supposed to know about. I ordered a set. One bath towel. Two hand towels. Two washcloths. I put it on my credit card and immediately felt guilty. Then I felt stupid for feeling guilty. Then I felt angry that I'd been drying off with sandpaper for two years and calling it normal. They arrived four days later in a white box. I opened it on my kitchen counter. Pulled one out. And I felt it again. That same weight. That same thickness. That same warmth that doesn't make sense because nobody's used it yet but it already feels like it's been waiting for you. Like it was made for this exact moment. For you. In your kitchen. In your apartment. Not in a mansion in the Hamptons. I took a shower that night specifically to use it. Not because I needed a shower. Because I needed to feel what it felt like. I stepped out. Grabbed the towel off the hook. Wrapped it around myself. And I just stood there. Bare feet on the cold tile. Steam still hanging in the air. Wrapped up in this thing that felt like a warm hug from someone who actually means it. My little bathroom with the flickering light and the cracked mirror tile and the shower curtain with the mildew spot — for the first time, it didn't feel like the worst room in my apartment. It felt like the best room. The next morning I used one of the hand towels to dry my face after washing it. And I stood there again. Because even just pressing it against my face felt different. Softer. Kinder. Like my skin was being treated gently for the first time instead of scraped. I looked at myself in the mirror and something was different. Not my face. My expression. I looked like a woman who just experienced something nice. I texted my sister. "I just spent money on towels and I think I'm losing my mind." She called me immediately. "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. She didn't even ask the price. She just ordered. Three days later she called me back. "I hate you. I can never use my old towels again. I tried this morning. I reached for the old one out of habit and the second it touched my skin I put it down. What have you done to me?" Her husband texted me the next day. "My wife is making me feel these towels every time I walk past the bathroom. She stands in the doorway holding one out like she's presenting evidence. What did you do?" Within a month, my mom had a set. She called me crying after her first shower. She said, "Mija, 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." She said, "You should've found out sooner." My best friend had a set. She said her morning routine used to be the thing she dreaded most. Now she looks forward to the shower just because of the towel after it. My sister's neighbor had a set because she used the bathroom when she was over for dinner and wouldn't leave until she got the name. She stood in my sister's hallway with her phone out ordering before she sat back down at the table. Her pasta was cold. She didn't care. And every single one of them said the same thing. "Why did nobody tell me about this sooner?" Here's what I think about now. I spend ten hours a day in a house where everything is designed to feel good. The furniture. The sheets. The candles. The towels. The Oribe shampoo. The Le Labo soap. The Diptyque candle. Everything in that house touches your senses in a way that makes you feel like you matter. And I used to go home and just accept that my life doesn't feel like that. That my apartment is my apartment. That my bathroom is my bathroom. That Target towels are what people like me use. That luxury is for a certain kind of person. But it can feel like that. Not all of it. I can't afford the Birkin or the marble island or the fresh flowers or the private jet to Aspen. But I can afford the towels. And the towels are the thing you actually feel. Every single day. Multiple times a day. They touch your skin more than any piece of furniture or any candle or any fancy rug. More than the Chanel in her closet. More than the Range Rover in the driveway. The rich family I work for doesn't use these towels because they're rich. They use them because they felt the difference once and never went back. Same reason they use Oribe instead of Pantene. Same reason they burn Diptyque instead of Yankee Candle. They just know what's better. And once you know, you can't unknow it. I'm not rich. I drive a Honda with the check engine light on. I live in a studio apartment in Riverhead. I buy my groceries at ShopRite with coupons. But I feel the same difference every morning now. In my tiny bathroom with the flickering light. Wrapped up in the same towel that a woman with a Birkin uses. And for thirty seconds, my morning feels exactly like hers. You don't need a house in the Hamptons. You don't need a husband in finance. You don't need a kitchen island that costs more than your car. You don't need Le Labo soap or Oribe shampoo or a $185 candle that smells like fig trees. You just need their towels. They're running up to 60% off right now with free shipping. And they have a 30-day money-back guarantee. But after the first shower, you won't be sending them back. You'll be texting your sister the link. Trust me. I know because that's exactly what I did. And she'll hate you for it. In the best way. onuia.com

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onuia.com

Sale Ends Tonight

The softest, thickest towels you'll ever own. Hotel luxury without the hotel price.Available in bath towels, hand towels, bath sheets, and complete bundles. Everything you need to upgrade your bathroom.Once you feel it, you'll never use anything else.