I bought an Aesop knock-off and I am deeply filled with regret
The hand soap on my kitchen counter fills me with shame — but the worst part is that it doesn’t even smell that nice.
During one of my retail blackouts, I found myself in front a display of familiar looking amber bottles in a homeware store. Something about them was a little bit off. There were similar to —although certainly not — Aesop. From far away they looked just the same. I stepped closer to read the label.
KROPP.
What?! How crass. What does that word sound like? “Crock of shit” and “crap” mashed together. Crop, to cut down or reduce. You cropped your ex out of that photo. A riding crop, like the one wielded by Miss Trunchbull. Crop, like crop circles, stamped into fields of corn by con artists (corn artists?) and UFO nuts. Delusional, I bought the hand soap anyway.
The KROPP hand soap haunts my kitchen like a beating heart under the floor. I can’t bear to throw it away because it was $35 and I need to use it. Truthfully, I do like the way it looks beside the sink because it reminds me of what an Aesop bottle might look like in its place. I might even refill the bottle with a nicer smelling soap from Canadian Tire and keep it in my bathroom. Yet, if I look too long, or stare too closely, an uneasiness settles in your chest cavity. It just looks off.
The KROPP line differs from Aesop largely because it strives to be nothing more than a visual imitation. The first obvious difference is the colour of the label. KROPP labels are dusty rose and dusty mint. Pretty. Aesop’s labels are mostly off-white and black and supposed to look like they’re from a European apothecary. Aesop’s products are more expensive, their offerings are more diverse, and their brick and mortar shops are a tactile and luxurious experience. Most importantly: all of their products smell much better.
Aesop’s design philosophy is well documented. I can’t explain it because I’m not a designer. I simply consume nice things — and in the absence of the correct nice things, similar things. My dining set consists of close-but-not-quite Herman Miller Eames knock-off chairs, called “Eiffel” by the store, and a matching table inspired by the chair and not at all by any existing Herman Miller table. It’s almost grotesque that the knockoff gave birth to its own separate thing. An Aesop bottle would not look out of place in my home. The KROPP line intrigued me for its visual similarity. Like the Eames/Eiffel dichotomy, it’s not quite 1-to-1, but the difference isn’t as stark as, say, the Eames/Eiffel/Ikea dissolution of branding into something nearly unrecognizable-but-still-a-plastic-chair. Or so I thought at first.
Its scent, “rosewood, oakmoss and patchouli”, rests on the skin for an instant before evaporating. I forget about it immediately once my hands are dry. No pleasant reminders. No positive association in my memory. I’m not even sure if I can remember the smell — only that it vanishes. The line also contains a scented candle that smells like nothing, diffuser sticks, which also smell like nothing, and heavily perfumed body lotion.
When I bought the soap I thought it might remind people of Aesop and they’d associate me with Aesop. Then people might also be reminded that I am a thoughtful, tasteful human being. I now believe I was gravely mistaken.
How can this abomination convey taste, thoughtfulness, and wealth? Surely nobody will notice it. Nobody has commented on it yet, and plenty of guests have used it. But that’s part of the problem — I do believe that if it were Aesop, as it is meant to be, somebody would say something nice. Instead I feel as fraudulent as the KROPP bottle. Trying to be decent looking and cultivated – but ultimately a forgettable imitation. Missing something that I myself am not able to see. How tragic.
Am I more than my kitchen soap? If your houseguests aren’t constantly complimenting you, why should anybody come over? If nobody is coming over, why have nice hand soap?
Like my KROPP soap, these questions haunt me. Where I hoped to signal refinement, I have opened a vacuum where the echoes of my inner self disappear.
This post was sponsored by KROPP. The author makes a commission from affiliate links. For 10% off your first purchase of a KROPP product, type in the code AEKROPP at checkout.
