My very first memory is of my mother's scent, her aura of freshness, the perfume of her presence. My first sensation of joy was being allowed to reach up and touch her fragrant and satiny skin. Her hair didn't escape my attention, either. As soon as I was old enough to hold a brush, l'd give her no peace.

All of this annoyed my father considerably. "Stop fiddling with other people's faces," he'd say.

But that is what I liked to do touch other people's faces, no matter who they were, touch them and make them pretty.

Before I'm finished, I'll set, I'm certain, the world's record for face touching ... and I’m nowhere near finished, I might add.

My father's hardware store was my own first venture into merchandising. I loved to help him arrange his wares. My special job was creating window displays that would attract customers. How I loved to make those windows appealing!

There may be a big difference between lipstick and dry goods, between fragrance and doorknobs, but just about everything has to be sold aggressively. 

I honed my techniques as I played with the wares at my father's store and at Plafker and Rosenthal. I whetted my appetite for the merry ring of a cash register.

I learned early that being a perfectionist and providing quality was the only way to do business.

He captured my imagination and interest as no one else ever had. I was smitten with Uncle John. He understood me. What's more, he produced miracles.

I watched as he created a secret formula, a magic cream potion with which he filled vials and jars and flagons and any other handy container. It was a precious velvety cream, this potion, one that magically made you sweetly scented, made your face feel like spun silk, made any passing imperfection be gone by evening.

We constructed a laboratory of sorts in the tiny stable behind the house. My parents installed gleaming linoleum on the floors and walls.

We set up a table, where I watched my uncle mix his magic.

Do you know what it means for a young girl to suddenly have someone take her dreams quite seriously? Teach her secrets?

I could think of nothing else. After school, l'd run home to practice being a scientist. I began to value myself so much more, trust my instincts, trust my uniqueness.

Times were lean. About two years after our marriage, we had a beautiful son, and I spent my days mothering Leonard. And all the time, all the time, I was also mothering my zeal for experimenting with my uncle's creams, improving on them, adding to them.

I was forever experimenting on myself and on anyone else who came within range.

Good was not good enough—I could always make it better. I know now that "obsession" is the word for my zeal. I was obsessed with clear glowing skin, shining eyes, beautiful mouths.

It was never quiet in the house. There was always a great audible sense of industry, especially in the kitchen, where I cooked for my family and during every possible spare moment, cooked up little pots of cream for faces. I always felt most alive when I was dabbling in the practice cream.

I showed Mrs. Morris a mirror. She was a raving beauty.

Silence. She was thinking. "Do you think you would be interested in running the beauty concession at my new salon at 39 East Sixtieth Street?" she asked.

I did not hesitate a second. Up until that point, I had been giving away my products. This was my first chance at a real business.

I would have a small counter in her store. I would pay her rent; whatever I sold would be mine to keep. No partners (I never did have partners). I would risk the rent, but if it worked, I would start the business I always dreamed about.

Risk taking is the cornerstone of empires. No one ever became a success without taking chances. Yes, yes, yes, Mrs. Morris! I was interested.

First things first. If I was going to be in business, I needed proper jars.

I rushed out to buy dozens of simple white opal-glass jars with black covers, which looked quite professional to me.

My uncle had marketed creams under his wife's name, Floranna, but now it was my turn, and my business.

I wanted to see my name in lights, but I was willing to settle for my name on a jar.

Now, the big secret: I would give the woman a sample of whatever she did not buy as a gift.

The hotel owners welcomed the diversion I provided. It cost them nothing, and my services were more enthusiastically received than an entertainer's.

Women wanted to learn, not laugh at silly jokes. One summer after another, I pushed myself, lauding creams, making up women, selling beauty.

In the winters, l'd visit these eager ladies at their homes, where, with a bridge game as a backdrop, l'd make up their friends and sell more creams. The mood at these sessions was as exhilarating for me as for them.

I didn't need bread to eat, but I worked as though I did… from pure love of the venture. For me, teaching about beauty was and is an emotional experience. I brought them charisma and knowledge about their possibilities. They gave me a sense of success. I felt flushed with excitement after each session. Pure theater—in the end that's what it was, this rendering of beauty. Pure theater for me!

I cried more than I ate. There was constant work, constant attention to detail, lost hours of sleep, worries, heartaches. Friends and family didn't let a day go by without discouraging us.

"Estée, what do you need this for? Stay home with your darling family…" They meant well.

Despite all the naysayers, there was never a single moment when I considered giving up. That was simply not a viable alternative.

I had a secret weapon. There were, in those days before television and high-gloss advertising, only two key ways to communicate a message quickly. They were: telephone and telegraph.

I had a third. It was potent: Tell-a-Woman.

Women were telling women. They were selling my cream before they even got to my salon. Tell-a-Woman was the word-of-mouth campaign that launched Estée Lauder Cosmetics.

I was beginning to feel restless with the success I was enjoying at the salons. It soon became apparent that I needed to have a larger marketplace the great department stores to be exact—partly because of the new phenomenon of charge accounts.

Joe and I knew we had to start running a very different, much more serious operation; space became the operative word.

We set about finding our first "factory" to fill our new, terribly momentous Saks Fifth Avenue order. They were the first, the very first, to take us on and I would never forget it. Ever since, I've had a special place in my heart for this store: breaking that first, mammoth barrier was perhaps the single most exciting moment I have ever known.

Fortunately, our confidence equaled our excitement, because we had to have enough faith in our work to invest all our savings.

Our first home base was a former restaurant on Central Park West—1 West Sixty-fourth Street. We had to pay six months' rent in advance.

Those were potent words—"in advance"—but we swallowed hard and signed. On the restaurant's gas burners we cooked our creams, mixed them, sterilized our pretty new jars with boiling water, poured and filled and planned and packaged. We did everything ourselves. I still have one of those gas burners, which I treasure as a memento of our beginnings. Every bit of work was done by hand, four hands, Joe's and mine.

We had my uncle's original cream and others l'd created by then. We stayed up all night for nights on end, snatching sleep in fits and starts.

The order for Saks had to be produced on time. As D-day (delivery day) loomed, we hired a man to help us, and deliver we did—on time. At last, we were in the big leagues of business.

All the people to whom I had given samples, all the people who had been telling other people, all those people appeared on opening day at Saks Fifth Avenue.

In two days, we were sold out. The fun was about to start. And with that came the endless work, the endless traveling, the endless streams, rivers, tides, torrents, oceans of words I would utter in praise of the products I knew were the creams of the crop.

I was a woman with a mission. I had to show as many women as I could reach not only how to be beautiful, but how to stay beautiful. On the way, I hoped in my secret heart to find fame and fortune.