There is a curious thing about turning fifty.

You are still entirely yourself — except your body appears to have started an independent project without consulting you.

Suddenly, heat arrives from nowhere. Sleep becomes a negotiation. Your skin changes its mind about everything. And perspiration, apparently, decides it would like a more prominent role in your life.

At first, you tell yourself it is temporary. You will ride it out. You are sensible. Experienced. Resilient. And then, after changing your T-shirt for the third time in one night, resilience begins to feel slightly overrated.

So you go to the pharmacy. And this is where things become truly depressing. Shelves of pills. Supplements. Creams. Boxes in tasteful shades of clinical despair. Suddenly, menopause is no longer something your body is doing. It looks like a diagnosis. You stand there thinking:

I am not ill.

My body is changing, certainly. Sometimes inconveniently. Occasionally absurdly. But women have been doing this for generations, and I refuse to believe the appropriate response is to surrender myself to beige packaging and a life of solemn symptom management.

I still care how things look. I still care how they feel. I still like beautiful objects, good clothes, sensuality, wit, pleasure and the small luxuries that make an ordinary Tuesday considerably more civilized. And frankly, maturity has its advantages. You know yourself better. You tolerate less nonsense. And with the right long-term partner, certain aspects of sex become delightfully less complicated.

So I began asking a very simple question:

I wanted products that understood what was actually happening. Products that worked. Products I would happily leave on the bathroom shelf rather than hide behind the toothpaste. Things that felt considered, effective and desirable. Not because I want to be younger. I don’t. I want to be exactly where I am — only more comfortable, better equipped and preferably surrounded by beautiful things.