cult of hair
I've been obsessed with hair forever. I lust after new hair care products like most people lust after sex or good pizza. If I had kept all the bottles and jars of shampoos, pomades, sprays, gels, mousses, creams, treatments and other follicular accouterments, I could fill the Pentagon or at least the Senate. I'm a connoisseur of conditioner, a gel gourmand, a mousse maven.
The world does not need another ode to thicker, fuller hair--but how could I resist? Writers are supposed to write about what they know--and for better or worse--I know hair. I've bowed down at the temple of Fekkai and kneeled at the altar of Sahag. I've read thousands of articles about how to get more sexy, lustrous, touchable, sexy hair in the pages of Elle, Glamour, and Allure. I've tried their tips and invented some of my own. I've rolled, blown dried, straightened, set, and teased my hair into submission. I've been a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette. I've even--in a moment of post-breakup insanity--been a jet black goth goddess. Sad to say, but I've even wept after a bad trip to the hairdresser. I'll do anything to get an unruly and profoundly wanton coif.
I've had sleek, straight hair during frigid Chicago winters and bouncy curls in the humidity of DC summers. I've had bedhead and, thank God, sex hair. I've been tormented, amazed, fascinated, frustrated, and occasionally pleased with my locks. I revel in my obsession, yet am sickened by it. In a city that esteems intellectualism above all else, I often feel ashamed of my superficial craving. Having this fixation in LA or New York might be tolerated, but in the styleless streets of DC, it's unacceptable.
Sometimes, I find solace in the fluorescent lights of my neighborhood drugstore. I roam the haircare aisle and survey my little soldiers. Clairol, L'Oreal, Pantene beckon me. I caress the plastic bottles, read the labels, check for anything new. I read the promises with the naiveté of a towheaded babe. I'm a complete, unapologetic sucker. "With continued use, your hair will become softer, thicker, more shiny, stronger, able to withstand nuclear fallout and end world hunger."
I try every new product. I'm not a snob--I'll buy the cheapest drugstore shit or the most expensive salon elixer. When I get my stash home--whether it's glossy pomade or self-heating oil--I feel a rush not unlike that of a hardened junkie. Sometimes I find myself shaking with anticipation. Is this the one? Will it come through for me in my frizzy-headed hour of need? Will I emerge from the shower six inches taller, 10 pounds lighter, and rich? My expectations are insane. I suspend belief and throw away all sense and logic.
When I do step out of the bathroom, struggle with my hairdryer and that strange diffuser contraption, and glance back at my reflection, it's the same. The only noticeable difference after all the massaging and spraying is a lighter wallet and a fuller medicine chest.
I've tried to quit cold turkey. It's really pointless, though. I don't have that many vices and if I die with one too many tubs of mousse, who will know or care? I take happiness where I can get it, and if that means diving headlong into the world of silk proteins, panthenol, and dimethicone, so be it.
Digitalecho