Susan Brown Facebook ad: “Sale - Onuia”

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Last month I spent one night at the Ritz-Carlton. The things hotels at this level spend money on would shock you. It was our anniversary. Almost $2,000 for one night, the kind of thing you do once and don't tell people what it cost. Marble floors in the lobby that echoed when you walked. A bed so deep I got lost in it. A robe in the closet they sell for $300. The bottle of wine we ordered from room service was $200, and it was the cheapest one on the list. Breakfast came under a silver dome and cost more than I spend on groceries in a week. Everything in that place was built, down to the last inch, to make you feel like a different kind of person for one night. But the thing I could not stop thinking about after I left was none of that. It was the towels. I know how that sounds. But hear me out. I stepped out of the shower that night and wrapped myself in one and I actually stopped moving. It had real weight to it, the kind of weight that feels expensive in your hands before you even open it up. Thick. Warm before I even put it on, like somebody had been keeping it warm for me. I stood in the middle of that bathroom wrapped up in it far longer than I want to admit. It didn't feel like a towel. It felt like being wrapped in something that cost a fortune. And for the first time I understood what people are actually paying for when they pay for luxury. It isn't the marble. It's this. The thing that touches your skin. The next morning we checked out and I went back to my life. Then I got home. Walked into my own bathroom. Picked up my towel, the one I'd had for 2 years from Target. Thin. Rough. That scratchy feeling where you dry off as fast as you can just to be done with it. And I could not let the hotel ones go. For like a week. Every shower, I'd reach for my towel and get a little annoyed. It started to actually bother me. So I did the embarrassing part. I found the hotel's number and I called. A woman picked up. "This is the Ritz-Carlton, how can I help you?" I said, "Hi, this is going to sound strange. I stayed with you last weekend and I honestly can't stop thinking about your towels. I didn't take one, I promise. But I kind of wish I had. Do you sell them?" She laughed a little. Not in a mean way. Like she'd been asked before. "I can't sell you ours," she said. "But the ones that feel exactly like them are a brand called Onuia. 100% premium cotton, 600 GSM." "Does everyone know about these?" I asked. She said, "A certain kind of person does." That sentence sat in my stomach the rest of the day. A certain kind of person. I looked them up that night. The reason they feel that way is the weave. A refined terry weave that keeps the cotton fibers loose and soft instead of twisting them tight the way regular towels do. That tight twist is exactly why a normal towel feels fine for a week and then turns to sandpaper. These stay soft, wash after wash. Onuia supplies luxury hotels and spas. That's their whole thing. And that was the part that got me. It was never that the hotel was fancy. It was the towel. And the towel had a name. The same one I could buy. I'd spent years thinking that feeling was something you could only rent for $2,000 a night. I ordered a set that night. One bath towel, two hand towels, two washcloths. Felt a little guilty, because who spends real money on towels. Especially me. I clean other people's houses for a living. They came a few days later in a white box. First shower, I wrapped up in one, and I was right back in that hotel bathroom. Same weight. Same warmth. Standing on my own cold tile, in my own tiny bathroom, not wanting to move. And for the first time, my bathroom didn't feel like the worst room in my apartment. It felt like something. Like somewhere I was allowed to be still for a moment. I texted my sister that I'd lost my mind and spent money on towels. She asked how fancy. I told her I stood there after my shower and didn't want to leave. She ordered a set before we hung up. First week. No lint. Not a single fiber on my body after any shower. My skin felt different. That tight dry feeling I'd had for years after drying off just disappeared. Because I wasn't rubbing twisted fibers into my skin twice a day. I want to say something about that, actually, because I didn't expect it. I have eczema on my forearms. Have since I was a kid. It flares in the winter and I always assumed that was just weather and detergent and the hot water I'm in all day for work. Within a month of switching, it calmed down more than it has in years. I'm not going to sit here and tell you a towel cured anything. But I dry my arms twice a day, every day, and I'd been doing it with something rough my entire adult life without ever once considering that it mattered. Second week. My boyfriend came out of the shower and stood in the doorway. "Babe. What are these towels." Not a question. A statement. Like he'd just found something that had been missing from his life. This is a man who uses the same bar of soap until it's a sliver too small to hold. Third week. My mom came to visit from Bakersfield. She used the bathroom. She came out, sat on my couch, and said, "Mija, those towels." And she started crying. Not dramatic crying. Quiet crying. The kind where someone has been drying off with rough cheap towels for 40 years and didn't know it could feel like that. I ordered her a set that night, shipped to Bakersfield. She called me when they arrived. She said she wrapped herself up and just stood there with her eyes closed. She said, "I finally understand why rich people's bathrooms feel different." Fourth week. I washed mine for the 4th time. Softer than the day they arrived. Getting better with time. Rewarding you for using them. It's been a little over a year now. And this is the part I would have been most skeptical about if someone told me. They are better than the day they arrived. Not the same. Better. I've washed them more times than I can count, in hot water, on a schedule, the way you do when you're a little obsessive about laundry. They have not thinned. They have not gone grey. They do not smell after two days. There is no pilling on any edge. Every towel I've ever owned in my life has died on me within a year. These are the first ones that haven't. And I'm the one doing the washing, so if there were a catch, I'd have found it by now. I clean 6 homes a week. Every single one of them has expensive towels. Pottery Barn. Restoration Hardware. Brooklinen. I fold them. I hang them. I know exactly how each one feels. And none of them feel like this. None of them feel like that hotel bathroom. None of them feel like what I go home to now. I told one of my clients about them. She ordered a set. Called me the next week and said, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I've now told 4 clients. All 4 switched. All 4 said the same thing. "Why didn't I know about this?" I told a woman I've cleaned alongside for 6 years. A woman who trusts nothing and nobody, who has never once in 6 years spent money on something she didn't absolutely need. She wrote the name on the back of a receipt. She bought a set a month later and told me it was the first thing she'd bought for herself since her daughter was born. Because nobody tells you. That's why. The stores don't tell you because they need you to keep buying twisted weave towels that fall apart every year. The brands don't tell you because they charge $50 for a towel that doesn't even meet hotel standards. And the rich people, and the most expensive hotels in the world, don't tell you. They just assume everyone already knows. But not everyone does. I didn't. And I touch towels for a living. 11 years of cleaning the most beautiful homes in Los Angeles didn't teach me this. One night in a hotel did. You can have a tiny apartment with a cracked mirror and a shower curtain that needs replacing. But if the towel is right, if the thing touching your skin every morning feels like it was made for someone who matters, the rest of it doesn't bother you as much. I think about myself standing in that hotel bathroom I couldn't really afford, finally working out that the thing making it feel that way wasn't the marble or the view or the price of the room. It was a towel. And a towel is something you can take home. That's the part nobody explains. You don't have to buy the hotel. You just have to buy the one thing in it that actually touched you. The marble is for Instagram. The towels are for you. I've cleaned bathrooms with $200 faucets and $500-a-square-foot tile. I've folded towels that cost $85 each from boutiques in West Hollywood. And the best towel I've ever felt in my life is on a rack in my apartment in Inglewood. And it costs less than most of them. And I'm never going back. onuia.com

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onuia.com

Sale - Onuia

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.