Someone in our comments called us the swindlers. We've been sitting with that…
There's an old tale about an emperor who loved clothes more than he loved leading. Two swindlers arrive promising a fabric so fine it's invisible, but only to fools, and to those unfit for their position. Nobody admits they see nothing. The whole court applauds a coat that was never there, and the emperor walks through the city foolishly naked.
That tale feels surprisingly modern. We have more choice than any generation before us: thousands of reviews on every product, comparison videos for every purchase, ten brands in every category all claiming to be the best.
And worse, everything is new. New brands surface every second, right when you're trying to switch off, promising the moon, catching your eye at any cost, adding to the noise, feeding the worry, whispering the same promise:
"This one will complete you. This is what people like you own."
We aren't sold products. We're sold identities.
That's why we're easier to persuade than ever, not because we're stupid, but because we're permanently unfinished, always reaching for some way to express ourselves. Which is the point we're making here: if we're doing this for ourselves, shouldn't the things we buy be more intentional?
Instead, our homes are slowly turning into museums of almost identical things. Seven water bottles, different colors, of course. Three yoga mats. Enough trainers for a small football team.
Not really what we wanted, nor what we needed. And like the emperor, we become fools too. The only difference is that now, instead of a made-up invisible fabric, we're surrounded by made-up tangible things. All of it collecting dust in a forgotten corner or buried deep in a wardrobe.
It all started when someone called us swindlers. We can't deny that we weren't affected by that. Such a strong word and, after all, we are indeed asking you to buy something.
But we are also trying to convince you to have things that tell you a bit more about who you are, what you like. And to stop buying everything.
Not because buying things is bad, but because buying everything stops you appreciating anything.
If you buy Rollr, we'd rather you used it for years than buying something else from us next month. We'd rather be one of the few objects worth falling in love with.
For its design. Its effectiveness. The gemstone you chose yourself. The scent that complements your perfume and leaves people asking what you're wearing.
There are plenty of objects worth falling in love with: the pen you wrote in your journal everyday, the mug you always reach for, the watch your father wore, the perfume bottle that somehow survives every clear-out, the clothing you bought in that trip, the vintage sandals you been gifted in your 20s, the jewelry you used in your wedding.
Each one of them tells you about your story. They stayed, and nobody's looking at their price tags anymore. Even the smallest signs of wear now linger like traces of those days. Hints about your likings, your scents, the colors you pop into, and the people who have seen you in them.
We're not against buying things, we do love beautiful things. We just think that it deserves commitment.
A favourite object isn't something you discover, but something you keep choosing.
We definitely shouldn't be adding more things around us all the time, often not even acknowledging they are there, without knowing why we bought them in the first place.
In fact, we shouldn't be buying more, but loving better what stays with you.
Why we decided to upgrade everything about deodorant.
A luxury natural deodorant built for a sensory ritual, not a routine. Why Rollr spent four years upgrading everyday essentials: refillable, conscious, and unapologetically indulgent.
You might have seen the ad. Milo, on camera, saying that upgrading to Rollr could give you an elevated experience. That's a big claim for a deodorant, and we know it. So we figured we owed you the reasoning behind it.
Rollr is a small company. We launched in 2024, but every part of it was crafted over four years before that: decisions, formulations, chemists, testers, ingredients, packaging, patents, all with Milo as our only full-time person for most of it. Right now we're still just two full-time employees and a small team willing to tell you why we thought to rebuild the world around deodorant.
Plenty of people will tell you sustainability requires sacrifice, that doing right by the planet means doing without. We don't buy that. Conscious consumption and small everyday luxuries aren't opposites. We're here to prove it.
Which brings us back to that ad, because someone on Instagram pushed back on it hard. They asked how an "elevated experience" is supposed to happen while you're still half asleep, wondering if you can skip a shave, doing the math on whether five snoozes means missing the train, and knowing there's no time left for coffee.
Fair. We're not immune to mornings like that. We rush through them too, meetings, desks, email tabs, same as anyone. Time is the one thing none of us actually own, and most mornings it feels borrowed. So we're not promising to fix your alarm clock. What we're asking for is ten seconds, to wake your senses up before the day takes over: a scent built by fine fragrance perfumers, a heavy, faceted glass bottle in your hand, a formula that glides on like a serum, no pulling, no staining the shirt you just put on, so you walk out the door with one less thing to worry about: how you smell.
Rollr is an upgrade, not a compromise. You won't be getting less. We won't make you settle for something that's not as good as you'd like.
Why look to perfume, not deodorant?
Deodorant had stayed functional while the rest of beauty moved on. So we stopped benchmarking against other deodorants and looked at perfume instead, a category that already knew how to turn a mundane routine into a sensory experience worth returning to.
That thinking shaped the bottle: thickened, faceted glass developed with Mother Design, built to sit on a shelf next to Chanel or Dior rather than hide in a cabinet. "Thickened, faceted glass looks beautiful and also adds strength," Milo says with the facets giving it a sculptural look, the thicker base reducing breakage. It took more than 60 3D-printed prototypes, adjusted by fractions of a millimetre, to get the cradle and lid twisting smoothly without ever leaking in transit.
The rollerball follows the same logic. Roll-on was the practical start, familiar, and unlike aerosol, refillable. But the natural gemstone that glides it on became something closer to a gua sha massage: cooling, calming, quietly personal and, since no two stones are alike, unique to each user. It's not a footnote; gemstones show up in roughly 38% of our reviews, called beautiful, spa-like, thoughtful.
The hardest problem was the refill: tablets, liquids, capsules and powder were all tested before powder won, for being lighter, easier to recycle, and simple to activate with water at home.
Four years sounds like a lot for a deodorant. That was rather the point.
Pleasure and planet, not pleasure or planet
Underneath it all is a simple bet: conscious consumption doesn't have to feel like giving something up. Shipping concentrated powder instead of a bottle that's 90% water cuts roughly 90% of the packaging a typical competitor uses, but the refill was designed to feel like part of the experience, not a chore. "The powder refills aren't a hurdle to overcome... they're part of the elevated experience," Milo says. Around 70% of reviews mention the design unprompted; 40% bring up sustainability without being asked.
We set out to build a moment, one you show up for fully, because it won't happen quite the same way tomorrow. Every refill works like that: this powder, this water, this ten seconds where you actually pay attention to what you're using instead of running through it. There's a kind of respect in that.
Respect for the product, respect for the time you're giving yourself, respect for the fact that this moment is yours and nobody else's. There's a kind of honesty in it too.
The gemstone carries it further. No two are cut alike, so the one gliding cool across your skin this morning belongs to you a little differently than it would to anyone else. Its irregularities aren't something to fix. They're the whole point, the same reason a handmade thing feels more honest than a mass-produced one. Get the rest right, the ritual, the respect, the honesty, and what's left over is calm
That's upgrading everyday essentials: not one better feature, but every detail reconsidered, until a small everyday luxury and a genuinely refillable deodorant become the same product.
5:34 AM
My hand goes reaching for it before I'm even awake. The trembling doesn't rouse me so much as it hollows me out, leaves my mind already halfway to work.
Are you ready for today?
Today? I'm on my feet instantly. Looking around. Where am I? My room. The old sheets. The books I bought and never read. The diaries. The box of junk I can't bring myself to throw out.
"Yes."
I've answered fully before I know what I'm supposed to be ready for. Like a train derailing, I start throwing things in the air.
What should I wear? Should I shower?
My hair is a disaster.
This is the problem with saying yes at 5:34 in the morning. You don't get to pick what you're agreeing to. Could be a meeting. Could be a fire. Could be Kevin from accounting finally snapping and challenging the whole department to hand-to-hand combat over who moved his stapler. I don't ask questions anymore.
5:40 AM
Fully awake, dressed, ready to go. I stare at my phone, at those five words. Go to see who sent them.
No idea.
No photo, an unknown number.
I tremble down onto the edge of my bed. Realizing that every scenario that went through my head is, probably, wrong. My client is not firing me. My boss didn't see my messages with my coworker. My cat is still asleep. My parents are fine somewhere in their houses after crocheting all afternoon. I did not walk naked anywhere and will not be arrested.
"Hello?"
I send it to the stranger.
5:52 AM
Nothing. Delivered, it says. Delivered, not read, which is somehow worse than silence and rejection combined, because it means the words made it all the way to wherever this person is and just sat down and got comfortable. I'm in the kitchen now, fully dressed, blazer on, shoes on, hair miraculously tamed, ready for a threat that has gone completely, insultingly silent. I refresh nothing, because there's nothing to refresh, and I do it anyway, four times, like the little grey bubble is going to change its mind out of guilt.
Still checking. I reread my own "Hello?" like it's evidence in a trial, looking for the exact word that scared them off. Nothing scared them off. They were never scared. They were never even there. This was, statistically, almost certainly a wrong number belonging to someone who is at this moment sound asleep and owes me nothing.
I know this. I know it the way you know the stove is off after you've already gone back to check it twice.
I have trained for seven years to be combat-ready for any subject line, any group chat, any Kevin. I have never once trained for an opponent who simply doesn't show up.
Maybe that's the problem. I know how to prepare for almost anything. I don't know how to prepare for nothing.
No emergency. No enemy. No deadline. Just a Tuesday, arriving the way Tuesdays do, without asking my permission first.
6:20 AM
I'm in the bathroom, trying to gather what's left of me. Cold water first, out of habit, over my wrists. I hadn't noticed, until just now, that my feet are bare against the tile. I got ready, but left my shoes. Somewhere between the living room and here, my body decided to stop bracing and just walk. The soap smells great. There's a stripe of sun already coming in low through the frosted window, landing on the sink, on my hands, doing nothing in particular except being there.
I look at myself for longer than I mean to. Not checking anything. Not rehearsing anything. Just looking.
My body has been awake and moving and functioning since 5:34, running on some current entirely its own, while my mind was upstairs somewhere drafting resignation speeches for arguments that never happened. But now, washing my hands, the scent catches me off guard and pulls me somewhere else, a friend's house, a heat wave, stories told lying on the grass, everyone laughing at nothing in particular.
I remember the sweetness in the air that day. Pool water drying in my hair. The mix of silence and noise that only happens on a long summer afternoon. The ground under my feet. The feeling of being comfortable, of being myself, how even when I woke up startled that morning, I wasn't bracing for a fight. I was ready for something good.
Sometimes my day starts before I do.
The phone stays in my bag the whole time.
8:54 AM
It buzzes. Calendar reminder. Something about a deck.
I go to work.
Article and short story by Laura Balaban