The first time I tried Yardley of London oatmeal and almond, I was in an I’ll-try-anything-once mood: a Hollister shirt hugging my figure with a mane of sunshine blonde hair and tight denim cuffed above my ankles. The packaging of the soap bar was tempting. The soap was like a loveletter sprayed w/ perfume. It had attracted the attention of so many resulting in Yardley’s legendary reputation.
Yardley started in 1770 as a limited British cosmetic line before its successful products became global. My skin was dry and sensitive, so I when a product worked, I used it for life. Burt’s Bees was always a god send for me too. The soap carried a luxurious scent and my body wore a coat of suds. Its rich lather was impressive for its price. My skin rivaled silk after every use. Yardley was my new beauty addiction.
A year of use had passed and the soap never lost its charm. I used it in my daily routine until I noticed a difference. A bad difference. My arms. My arms were suffering. The forearm was covered in little whiteheads. I panicked. I was a pickle. It resembled a Nestle crunch bar. No itching or burning just ugliness. I didn't accuse Yardley. My new beauty gem couldn't be letting me down. I googled the condition. No luck on a cure. I tried a Neutrogena astringent. Nothing. I tried a moisturizer. I even prayed. My pickle arms remained. I couldn't live with lumpy skin. And finally my mom suggested life without Yardley. It was a struggle….but I was desperate. I kicked the habit with a solution. Dove.