Does She... or Doesn't She?

“Do You Need Product?”

It was a simple question really, but as I heard the words, I felt my head cock to one side like my dog, Jack when I ask if he wants to go for a walk.  

I listened, and then my eyes glazed over for a moment or two.  I pondered the word need… Necessary?  Required?  To be in want?  Hmmmmmm. Aren’t most of us women “in want” of the perfect hairstyle, color, makeover, man?

I thought about the countertop, drawers, and cabinets in my not very large bathroom already crammed and overflowing with bottles, jars, tins, in various shapes and sizes. Most tried once or twice and then discarded. Not discarded all together mind you, just living in the land of oops, that didn’t work like in the salon discarded.

Still I heard the words, what was that small spritz bottle you used, come out of someone’s mouth. Apparently, it was mine. “Volumizer,” she responded, smiling that all knowing smile while the loud and shrill otherworld cha-ching rang somewhere in the salon’s altered state background. I could have sworn that she glanced at all of the other gurus who were busy snipping, shaping, or straightening someone’s style. A small smirk seemed to graze all of their faces in one synchronized swoop.

“Sure, I’ll take a bottle of that.” What could it hurt? Somehow, she’d managed to make my new look seem as thick and full as twenty years ago.  Okay, so I already knew I was buying a bottle of something I’d use once, maybe twice, hopefully three times, and that would be that. Still, I could dream, couldn’t I?

I returned home and my son went straight into his usual bout of snickers. “What?” I wanted to know.

“Got your hair cut?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just that, it’ll never look like that again.”

“Now, wait a minute.” I countered. “I can do this one.”

“Yeah right,” he chuckled, and flew out the door.

Well, okay, maybe he was right. I’ve never actually had the style the stylists gave me for more than a day.  It’s true. No matter what product I buy from them to ensure that I’ll achieve the result that they do, it just doesn’t happen. My hair has a life of its own. It does what it wants. Humidity… it’s big, wavy, curly, wild woman hair. Middle of winter… it’s as smooth as if I’d spent hours with the straightening iron. The color… well, these days, let’s just say that we’re never really sure what shade it’s going to be after a week or two.  Or three.  Or six.

You know what?  It’s so much effort, time, and energy. And for what?  My son is right. It’ll never look just walked out of the salon perfect when I do it.  After all, as my other resident expert, my daughter likes to remind me… “She’s a professional, Mom. Geeeeez.”

So, at my next appointment in six, eight, maybe ten weeks when I finally can’t take it anymore, and once again sit in that mesmerizing chair, staring at a face that I’m starting not to recognize, fanaticizing about a fabulous new look, I’ll be prepared. When she comes in for the close and I hear, do you need product? I’ll stay strong… for about a minute, I’m sure. Then, I’ll remember that she is a professional and somewhere in my brain the age old reminder that Only her hairdresser knows for sure will rewind and play.

You know where this will end. I’ll hand over my credit card because, mostly, I do need product. Don’t we all? Just ask your favorite professional.

Carol Sabik-Jaffe lives and writes near Philadelphia, PA, with her husband and two kids. She’s not sure if she’s ever liked her hair on day two.

Aroma Therapy Run Amok

It began innocently while doing a last minute dash through the supermarket. I don’t actually shop; I usually just blow through the aisles grabbing essentials mostly between the hours of four and six pm when I realize that I have nothing in the house to fortify the troops.

This particular day happened toward the end of my kitchen renovation. The light at the end of the tunnel beckoned – we actually had use of a sink after four and a half months and I needed a bottle of liquid antibacterial soap.

I was doing my usual power-walk up and down the rows when I spied a bright purple bottle that would complement my new decor. I snatched it. Next, I reached for the “summer green” colored bottle that I normally buy (or so I thought).

When I arrived home and unpacked my haul I found that I had embarked on a strange trip indeed. The purple soap’s label promised an “anti-stress” remedy! Pure essential oils of Lavender, Ylang-ylang & Patchouli pledged to cure the pressures of day-to-day life. The green liquid wasn’t my usual watermelon scent, but some “energy” boosting slime.

Okay, I’d give it a shot. Purple would go in the kitchen as planned, though now to battle germs and stress. (Stress, while renovating an old house? Can you say understatement?) The green, for energy, well, I’ve got teenagers who are in a constant state of groggy most mornings. The green would take up residence in the bathroom. Its pure essential oils of Mandarin & Ginger, with Green Tea Extract sounded as if it should be ingested, but we’d suds up with it.

As I placed the soap in the bathroom, much to my surprise, I noticed that my deodorant had also been affected. I hadn’t noted when, but, according to the label, it had morphed into an “ambition” enhancing schmear. Now, I’ve worked in a few competitive and uber creative shops and I’ve smelled ambition. I guarantee it doesn’t smell as flowery as the unidentified fragrance in my platinum underarm protection. I pondered the process... Is ambition absorbed directly into the pores or inhaled at inconspicuous times during the course of a day to intensify one’s life experience? I wondered when Shower Fresh, Spring Breeze, and Powder Fresh had become passé.

A few days later, I returned for another aerobic jaunt through the grocery. I stopped dead in my tracks in aisle number nine. It was everywhere – aroma therapy run-amok. Bottles and containers beckoned from the shelves. I stared at the deodorants. I couldn’t believe that my platinum protection could now not only supply a fresh dose of “ambition” but “optimism” as well. Optimism captured in an underarm solid? Look out Prozac!

The jewel colored purple and green ooze had apparently also been incorporated into a dish formula and bodywash with the same stress and energy promises. A new line of cleansing products with a brand name that sounded conspicuously like a meditation mantra… “ooohhhhmmmm” offered an assortment of soaps, bodymists, bodywashes and exfoliating scrubs with scents like citrus & ginger, sandalwood & chamomile, and jasmine & rose to name a few… promising soothing tonics and calming aromas. Yes! Goodbye yoga, pilates, and transcendental anything. I’ve found enlightenment in a bottle.

And then, there it was, at the very end of the aisle as if standing guard -- the mother of all scent seducers -- that herbal shampoo that’s over 99% natural and plant derived and comes oh-so-close to guaranteeing ecstasy using only Chamomile, Aloe Vera, and Passion Flower immersed in mountain spring water. How did that little blue pill ever come to be when twenty-five ounces of this stuff can be had for $4.89 (even less with double or triple coupons)?

 

I blame all of this on that age-old slogan -- “Calgon, take me away,” – promising tired and overwrought women a short vacation in the tub long before spa retreats were in vogue. Today, in addition to their perennial non-foaming formula, they’re marketing tiny two ounce bottles of take-me-away bodymist promising “A burst of well-being” and “A feeling of bliss” with directions to “spritz all over, anytime for an uplifting ‘take me away’ experience.”

What’s next? With promises in plastic everywhere, the possibilities seem endless. Can “Ignore the in-laws - the Holiday Scent” be far away? Lucky Lotto lotion? Romance in a roll-on? Pot-o-gold potpourri? We can only hope.