When Chuck Moxley couldn’t find his favorite coffee creamer—International Delight’s cinnamon hazelnut flavor—he went on a mission. First, the Chandler, Ariz., fund-raising consultant tried to find a supply online. Then he attempted to re-create the confection at home. Imagine his delight when he discovered a hotel serving the discontinued creamer in single-serving tubs. Moxley persuaded a friend in the hospitality business to connect him with a distributor so he could buy tubs by the case. When International Delight discontinued the single-serving portions, Moxley talked a second distributor into selling its last three cartons. And he’s still looking for more. “When you like something, you like it,” he says.
Most of us shrug and switch brands when a favorite product disappears. But every so often, folks get obsessed. Nothing, it seems, can replace a cherished mascara or brand of candy. And given that, following years of expansion, many companies are now cutting product lines to economize on manufacturing and marketing (Heinz is cutting its portfolio 15 percent; Kellogg by nearly a third), there are likely more distraught shoppers wandering the aisles than ever before.
“People get crazy ballistic,” says Garland Pollard, a consultant who blogs about discontinued products at BrandlandUSA.com. A favorite example: Carnation Breakfast Bars, discontinued in 1997. More than 4,000 fans signed an online petition demanding their return; others have posted rants on Pollard’s site, denouncing the manufacturer for its “gross misjudgment of the American consumer.” The Breakfast Bar brigade will do anything, apparently, for one last bite. When one man reported discovering six boxes in his grandmother’s deep freeze, another offered to buy them. “E-mail me,” he pleaded.
Some get obsessed with a product simply because it works, but for many, the attachment is emotional, says Suzanne Clarridge, CEO of My Brands, an online service that offers hard-to-find and discontinued products. Shoppers have called sobbing over a vanished line of dog toys. For some, it’s about lack of control in a chaotic world. The common complaint: “Everything I love disappears!”
Kelly Kreth will cop to those feelings. She used to buy Flex shampoo for two bucks. Now she’s paying as much as $6 on eBay. The price keeps going up, but the New York publicist doesn’t care. Flex wasn’t the greatest shampoo, she admits, but she’s crazy about the smell and the accompanying childhood memories. She regrets her failure to support the brand—there were periods when she switched to Pantene. “You don’t value something until it’s gone,” she says. “How did I let Flex slip through my fingers?”
There are services available to aid the grieving customer. Estée Lauder, for example, offers a Gone But Not Forgotten hotline for consumers seeking discontinued products. Reps will comb the warehouse and ship up to six pieces. Skin cream is the most popular request, says Andrea McLean, the company’s customer-communications director. But last year Estée Lauder got so many requests (more than 4,000) for a discontinued eyeliner, it put the cosmetic back into production.
The Vermont Country Store actually re-creates house versions of discontinued products. I was delighted to discover it offers a mock take on my 1980s favorite, Clairol Herbal Essence—a cheap, toxic-green shampoo that cleaned the daylights out of your hair. A single bottle cost me $15 plus $9 shipping, and it’s worth every penny. My hair once again smells like a pine forest from Mars.
For others, the solution is old-fashioned patience. South Carolina designer Janis Badarau keeps renewing her eBay alert on a discontinued line of canvas walking shoes. Every so often, someone cleaning out the closet puts a pair of size 38s up for sale, and Badarau snatches them up. So far, she’s stockpiled six pairs. If worse comes to worst, she says, she’ll leave them as a legacy: “Whoever inherits them can sell them on eBay.”
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