Dear Trichomania American Cream (Lush Trichomania Shampoo, DISCONTINUED, Lush American Cream Conditioner, $33.95 for a 500g bottle),
They say breaking up with a hairdresser is one of the hardest breaks a woman has to make. It’s not true. This is by far the hardest thing I’ve done (since this morning’s Pump class). Tirchomania American Cream, you’ve been my hair care regime for the last two years, but it’s over. The writing has been on the (shower) wall for quite some time.
You came to me at a difficult point in my hair cycle. I was growing out of some unhealthy colouring habits, and had been abusing silicone based hair care products for far longer than I care to remember. It’s a common phase for young girls in their early twenties, but I now know, being common doesn’t make something OK.
In many ways, you saved my hair from a downward spiral of aggressive dyes and smothering repair treatments. From that very first time in the shower, you unleashed something powerful on my follicles. Your smell alone – vanilla, coconut, a hint of citrus – intoxicated me. Your deep conditioning thrilled me. You were smooth, banishing my flyaways and frizz with your honey-sweet caresses. You bought my hair, gently, back to life after one too many bleach jobs.
We were good together, you and I. Never had I had such good hair. People stopped me in the street to ask what I was doing, and my answer, immediately, joyfully, was you. I thought I’d found the one.
Then, about a year in, things changed. Was it just me, or did your once sweet smell become cloying? Did your smoothing and conditioning drag me down? Every hair care regime goes through a period of adjustment. Maybe this was ours? Each passing week, though, bought no change. Instead, my hair became increasingly suboptimal.
And, then, I cheated on you. You were out of stock. I was desperate. My hair was filthy. It needed a wash. So I found a little bottle of I Love Juicy (Lush I Love Juicy Shampoo, $10.95 per 100g bottle). Although I Love Juicy’s banana-ey overtones made me gag, it did leave my roots voluminously invigorated. It was then I realised what was missing between us. I’d glimpsed what life could be like with bouncy, full, luscious hair. I threw away that little bottle of I Love Juicy, willing to give things another shot with you. But I couldn’t forget that incredible root lift that my sneaky bottle of I Love Juicy had given me.
Things went downhill fast. Rinsing thoroughly, I was still overwhelmed by your sticky residue. My hair clung limply to my scalp. I was using a can of dry shampoo (Batiste Tropicana Dry Shampoo, $9.95 per 100g bottle) a week. You know that’s not healthy - for hair, for the environment, for my budget. My ends were split and frazzled from too many attempts at the inverted-head-vigrous-hair-volumising-brush-up (don’t try that without a note from your chiropractor) by way of a desperate attempt to shake some life back into my hair. And yet we still couldn’t get the volume up.
So it’s time for us to part ways. No, I don’t want to keep trying till the end of the bottle. I’ve gone out and got myself a new regime, so I’m afraid it’s bin time for you. It seems cold, such an unceremonious goodbye after so many good times together. But Big Veganese (Lush Big Shampoo, $25.95 for a 330g pot, Lush Veganese Conditoner, $23.50 per 250g bottle) gives me root lift and volume like you never could. It’s entirely vegan too. Not that that matters, but I admire commitment to a cause.
I’ll remember you fondly, even though things got so lank at the end. I’m sure there are plenty of women out there who will appreciate all you have to offer – your sweet smell, your deep conditioning, and your soothing smoothness. Indeed, I heartily endorse you as a hair care product, and wish you many happy shower times together. But I’m no longer one of those women who wants what you have to offer. My hair needs invigoration, my hair needs energy, my hair needs the fresh smell of lime and sea salt, my hair needs root lift, root lift you just can’t give me.
Take care, we’ll always have Chifley (not quite the same as we’ll always have Paris, is it?)
Peg
Xoxo
Ps: this post, as with every post on this blog, is unsponsored. It’s just hair care advice from one woman to another, no subtext, no hidden messages, no financial incentives. Enjoy!
Showing posts with label Hair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hair. Show all posts
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
It's Happening.
A couple of months ago I blogged about the random urges to chop my hair that I sometimes experience.
Readers, it is happening again. And this time I have booked an appointment.
Recent life events (prospective job interviews, some sad endings of important things) have inspired me to do something, ANYTHING, about my hair situation.
The only thing is, just as I hung up the phone after booking my appointment for tomorrow, I realised I have no idea what I want done.
Hmmmm...
Readers, it is happening again. And this time I have booked an appointment.
Recent life events (prospective job interviews, some sad endings of important things) have inspired me to do something, ANYTHING, about my hair situation.
The only thing is, just as I hung up the phone after booking my appointment for tomorrow, I realised I have no idea what I want done.
Hmmmm...
Monday, January 31, 2011
Chopper
I’m having one of those three-monthly cycles. It must be connected to the moon, or the tides, or a combination of the two, but I woke up this morning, and, after having gone for a long walk and begun a batch of pasta dough, I couldn’t shake that sneaky Chopper feeling.
No, I’m not about to join a gang and get homicidal. But I am feeling compelled to cut my hair.
If I had to describe my relationship with my hair in Facebook terms, the only appropriate box to tick would be ‘it’s complicated’.
Partly enabled my miraculous ability to grow hair at superhuman speed (handy when it comes to the hair on your head, not so much when it comes to the hair on your legs) I’ve dramatically shifted my hairstyle, cut, and colour, so fast that I’ve given myself whiplash. My BA at uni was marked by abrupt changes, at least three times a year, with the associated style reworking. Looking back, I’m amazed I ever got any yooni work done – although, to be fair, there’s no better place to read Weber than under a stylist’s scissors.
For the last while, though, my hair has remained remarkably static. In’08 I decided to grow out my choppy, dark brown Pob. Does anyone else remember the Pob, or Posh Spice Bob, which hit the hairdressing scene around October 07? I was an ‘early adopter’ of this trend – characterised by a super short back with long straight layers around the face – at the behest of my talented but also single-mindedly-determined former hairdresser, and, whilst I loved how sleek the overall look was, I didn’t like the amount of washing and straightening involved. So, after a couple of months of experimenting with a shaggy Pob (as per my current drivers’ licence photo), I decided, in the name of ease and economy, that lengths were the way for me. Unfortunately, this meant the end of my first major hairdressing relationship – and if you thought breaking up with a boyfriend/girlfriend was hard, wait till you have to break up with a stylist…
All through 08 and 09, I grew and grew. Anyone who has had to grow out a shortish haircut will know that this takes dedication, even with my prodigious hair growing abilities. Lots of bobby pins and product were enlisted, and, as photos of the time show, there’s not a lot of nice things that can be said about how my hair looked until, about the middle of 09, I hit my goal – shoulder grazing hair – and could finally put it up without looking like a shorn sheep.
Yet I remained unsatisfied. The colour – a very dark brown, almost black, that I’d been doing myself at home, had to go. I looked, on a bad day, like Professor Snape’s boobier cousin. I decided it was time to abandon the bottle brunette and go native, with the help of a hairdresser, and, paradoxically, a whole heap of peroxide.
What, though, is native? As any sociologist or anthropologist will tell you, the idea of the ‘Native’ and the ‘Natural’ is a social construction –a bit of a myth in layperson speak. And my natural hair seems to bust all myths we tend to create around people’s natural hair colour. Here’s the first myth my hair busts: The Curtains match the Carpet, or, The Collar matches the Cuffs. My natural hair colour is completely different – I mean, diametrically opposed – to my eyebrows and, er, other hairy parts of my body, and has been since I was a child. Namely, the hair on my head is fair, and the rest of my hair, and my eyes, are dark dark brown. So, myth of matchy-matchy hair and eye colours? Busted.
The second myth that my hair and I bust is that Your Hair is Always the Same Colour, one Day/Month/Year to the next. Much like Nymphadora Tonks, to make another Harry Potter reference, my hair colour changes, by itself, all the time. In the space of a day, my follicular range goes from light golden blonde to mid brown, and back again – I am not joking – all without any intervention on my part (I’m working on being able to change my hair red when I’m angry, like Tonks, but so far have only succeeded in turning my face an alarming shade of beetroot, more like Uncle Vernon than Tonks. More practice might be needed). The changeability of my natural hair colour is so dramatic that I’ve often had arguments with people who are convinced I’ve done a swiftie with a bottle of peroxide or a dark tint, and it’s taken careful scalp inspections to convince them of my colour’s authenticity. Slightly awkward doing this in cafes. So, again, my hair and I just keep on smashing up those cultural myths about ‘natural’ and ‘native’ tresses.
But back to the story. My new hairdresser decided that going native would be a delicate process. Gradually, over a couple of five hour foiling sessions (there was a LOT of dark dye build up at the ends), I wound up with a soft, integrated blend of blondy-browny streaks, which would better facilitate the growing back in of my ‘natural’ colour (those dastardly social constructions, again) without having to do a radical chop n’ grow.
It’s been almost 18 months since my last artificial modification, and, aside from one trim, I haven’t meddled, attacked, abused or preened my hair in any way. Instead, I’ve been letting it unfurl on its own, and treating it as gently as possible – Lush shampoos, conditioners, and treatments are great for this, if you’re after a recommendation.
By and large, my hair, when left to its own forms of expression, has been good to me. There’s been less washing, less bad hair days, and, indeed, with the help of Tony and Guy Dry Shampoo, more great hair days.
And my hair feels amazing. I’ve always had soft-to-touch fine hair, so much so that at first year parties people would line up to stroke my hair (although maybe that was something to do with that scary-looking punch they were all drinking? Quite possibly…) but since letting nature take its course it’s cashmere soft.
So, why did I wake up this morning with the overwhelming urge to run up to the shops, find the nearest hairdresser, and beg him or her to chop my beautiful hair all off and perform a radical Jackson Pollock dye job? Perhaps we all have a little bit of Chopper – a little homicidal maniac, with tats and a scary moe - inside of us.
No, I’m not about to join a gang and get homicidal. But I am feeling compelled to cut my hair.
If I had to describe my relationship with my hair in Facebook terms, the only appropriate box to tick would be ‘it’s complicated’.
Partly enabled my miraculous ability to grow hair at superhuman speed (handy when it comes to the hair on your head, not so much when it comes to the hair on your legs) I’ve dramatically shifted my hairstyle, cut, and colour, so fast that I’ve given myself whiplash. My BA at uni was marked by abrupt changes, at least three times a year, with the associated style reworking. Looking back, I’m amazed I ever got any yooni work done – although, to be fair, there’s no better place to read Weber than under a stylist’s scissors.
For the last while, though, my hair has remained remarkably static. In’08 I decided to grow out my choppy, dark brown Pob. Does anyone else remember the Pob, or Posh Spice Bob, which hit the hairdressing scene around October 07? I was an ‘early adopter’ of this trend – characterised by a super short back with long straight layers around the face – at the behest of my talented but also single-mindedly-determined former hairdresser, and, whilst I loved how sleek the overall look was, I didn’t like the amount of washing and straightening involved. So, after a couple of months of experimenting with a shaggy Pob (as per my current drivers’ licence photo), I decided, in the name of ease and economy, that lengths were the way for me. Unfortunately, this meant the end of my first major hairdressing relationship – and if you thought breaking up with a boyfriend/girlfriend was hard, wait till you have to break up with a stylist…
All through 08 and 09, I grew and grew. Anyone who has had to grow out a shortish haircut will know that this takes dedication, even with my prodigious hair growing abilities. Lots of bobby pins and product were enlisted, and, as photos of the time show, there’s not a lot of nice things that can be said about how my hair looked until, about the middle of 09, I hit my goal – shoulder grazing hair – and could finally put it up without looking like a shorn sheep.
Yet I remained unsatisfied. The colour – a very dark brown, almost black, that I’d been doing myself at home, had to go. I looked, on a bad day, like Professor Snape’s boobier cousin. I decided it was time to abandon the bottle brunette and go native, with the help of a hairdresser, and, paradoxically, a whole heap of peroxide.
What, though, is native? As any sociologist or anthropologist will tell you, the idea of the ‘Native’ and the ‘Natural’ is a social construction –a bit of a myth in layperson speak. And my natural hair seems to bust all myths we tend to create around people’s natural hair colour. Here’s the first myth my hair busts: The Curtains match the Carpet, or, The Collar matches the Cuffs. My natural hair colour is completely different – I mean, diametrically opposed – to my eyebrows and, er, other hairy parts of my body, and has been since I was a child. Namely, the hair on my head is fair, and the rest of my hair, and my eyes, are dark dark brown. So, myth of matchy-matchy hair and eye colours? Busted.
The second myth that my hair and I bust is that Your Hair is Always the Same Colour, one Day/Month/Year to the next. Much like Nymphadora Tonks, to make another Harry Potter reference, my hair colour changes, by itself, all the time. In the space of a day, my follicular range goes from light golden blonde to mid brown, and back again – I am not joking – all without any intervention on my part (I’m working on being able to change my hair red when I’m angry, like Tonks, but so far have only succeeded in turning my face an alarming shade of beetroot, more like Uncle Vernon than Tonks. More practice might be needed). The changeability of my natural hair colour is so dramatic that I’ve often had arguments with people who are convinced I’ve done a swiftie with a bottle of peroxide or a dark tint, and it’s taken careful scalp inspections to convince them of my colour’s authenticity. Slightly awkward doing this in cafes. So, again, my hair and I just keep on smashing up those cultural myths about ‘natural’ and ‘native’ tresses.
But back to the story. My new hairdresser decided that going native would be a delicate process. Gradually, over a couple of five hour foiling sessions (there was a LOT of dark dye build up at the ends), I wound up with a soft, integrated blend of blondy-browny streaks, which would better facilitate the growing back in of my ‘natural’ colour (those dastardly social constructions, again) without having to do a radical chop n’ grow.
It’s been almost 18 months since my last artificial modification, and, aside from one trim, I haven’t meddled, attacked, abused or preened my hair in any way. Instead, I’ve been letting it unfurl on its own, and treating it as gently as possible – Lush shampoos, conditioners, and treatments are great for this, if you’re after a recommendation.
By and large, my hair, when left to its own forms of expression, has been good to me. There’s been less washing, less bad hair days, and, indeed, with the help of Tony and Guy Dry Shampoo, more great hair days.
And my hair feels amazing. I’ve always had soft-to-touch fine hair, so much so that at first year parties people would line up to stroke my hair (although maybe that was something to do with that scary-looking punch they were all drinking? Quite possibly…) but since letting nature take its course it’s cashmere soft.
So, why did I wake up this morning with the overwhelming urge to run up to the shops, find the nearest hairdresser, and beg him or her to chop my beautiful hair all off and perform a radical Jackson Pollock dye job? Perhaps we all have a little bit of Chopper – a little homicidal maniac, with tats and a scary moe - inside of us.
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