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Hawaii Natural Clean Reviews from Real Customers
From Dust Bunnies to Instagram-Ready
I never thought I’d be the kind of person who’d hire someone to scrub my floors. Me, the girl who once lived out of a backpack for a year, who preached about the “freedom of less” to 50K followers. But here’s the thing: when your apartment is your content studio, and your content pays for your apartment, dust bunnies become the enemy. Especially when the trade winds die down in September and the vog from the Big Island settles over Honolulu like a grimy blanket. One speck on my marble countertop? That’s 20 minutes of editing in Lightroom.
I found my house cleaning service through a local moms’ Facebook group (no, I’m not a mom, but those women know everything). The owner showed up wearing rubber slippers still sandy from Kaimana Beach and immediately clocked my vibe. “So, you’re the Instagram girl,” she said, eyeing my floating shelves stacked with exactly three artisanal bowls from Paiko. “You want it to look like no one lives here, yeah?”
Bingo.
The first crew didn’t get it. Left streaks on my picture window overlooking Diamond Head and folded my linen napkins into weird little swans. I nearly lost it when I found a crumpled Aloha Maid napkin tucked under the sofa—probably from the time I stress-ate two malasadas after a brand deal fell through. But this cleaning crew got it. Noticed how I kept my fridge empty except for a single bottle of cold brew and a papaya from the farmers’ market. Saw how I aligned my sandals parallel to the doorframe. They even learned my “aesthetic”—what my followers call “Waikiki Wabi-Sabi,” which is really just me being neurotic about negative space.
One Tuesday, after shooting my “Morning Rituals” reel (pour-over coffee, 5-minute journal, staring at the ocean trying not to check my phone), I caught a cleaning crew member reorganizing my bookshelf by color. “The blue ones look broke da mouth with the sunset,” she said, shrugging. I nearly hugged her.
Of course, perfection costs. I used this house cleaning cost calculator I found while eating poke at my “clean” kitchen counter (yellowfin from Fresh Catch, heavy on the limu). The number made me choke on a piece of ogo. But then I remembered the time I spent 45 minutes Photoshopping out a water stain before a collab with that ethical swimwear brand. Time is money. Sanity is money.
There are still bad days. Like when the Kona winds blow in and coat everything in sticky salt air. Or when I find a gecko carcass behind the toilet (RIP, little guy). But coming home to floors that smell like vinegar and lemongrass? Seeing my stupid $200 ceramic vase reflected in spotless glass as the sun sets over the Ala Wai? That’s the kind of peace you can’t put a price on.
Well. Actually, you can. It’s $185 a week.
— Kaiulani “Kai” Reyes, Waikiki, HI