(image taken from The Pursuit Aesthetic)
(image taken from Folica)
In the fantastical and delusional mental space I occasionally occupy, one where I am, indeed, a size six pant and can reasonably wear leggings without shame, one where having a hot fudge sundae for dinner has absolutely no consequences and especially no negative ramifications with regard to ability to attractively don aforementioned pants, I can feasibly have hair done to my butt. The reality is, even were my locks to grow to that luscious and beautiful length, the amount of maintenance and daily pruning required to appear even remotely professional is energy I am almost never willing to exert. My hair grows to an acceptable and still long place a few inches beneath my shoulder, stays there diligently and loyally, until it is trimmed and the split ends discarded. This cycle repeats, every four to six weeks.
With my stylist having expatriated to Rome, at least temporarily, I thought my strength in refusal to succumb to the wily taunts of salon products would be restored; a stranger was clipping my hair, we have no rapport and no history, I can easily lie to her about products purchased in the past, and so forth. No. Naturally, in the moment of confrontation, aggressively accosted about my shampoo habits, I crumbled, the backbone of a sliming slug, which she squished into mercurial submission with her merry sales pitch. A deluge of stingingly sweet marketing, I could not voice an argument against the Bumble and Bumble Creme de Coco shampoo, with its nutrients and its pleasantly innocuous tropical fragrance.
After my first shower at home, I accepted, I embraced; I was glad for my decision to spend whatever many dollars on some new shampoo. Proudly, I placed the new bottle in my suitcase, preparing for my trip here to Germany. Eighteen hours, four glasses of wine, two airplanes, and one rather pathetic four-star hotel later, as I gingerly unpack my business clothes and hang them, I stick my fingers in a soggy pile of goo. Shampoo goo. It takes only a moment to understand the culprit of the oozing white semi-solid and coconut permeating scent. In transit, the lid popped open. Thankfully, only my suitcase and a small travel case of batteries and electrical converters were sullied; miraculously, all things silk and dry-clean only were artfully avoided, the crap smearing in an abstract design only around the zipped up compartment near the top. Still, as I wiped up the mess with a small, forlorn hotel bathroom towel, I could not help but think of the spill in dollars spent. Duped again.