The Chuck Norris of hair product

For whatever reason I feel like I should get a cookie or something, maybe a big fat one with coconut and chocolate bits and caramel drizzle. And some icing, white buttercream icing that tastes like creamy fairies in a blender.

I should get this cookie because I have converted yet another person to the wonder that is the fifty-dollar bottle of hair conditioner. I know, fifty dollars for hair conditioner, what kind of madness could this be? But I have hair that lands well below my bra strap even when I leave the blow-dryer under the bathroom sink in the morning. Hence, there is no screwing around with hair product selection. I say selection like I had a choice in matter, though obviously I did not. No one looks at a bottle of seemingly over-priced hair goop and exuberantly whips out their checkbook. We need affirmation that the week of ingesting cans of fifty-nine cent Campbell’s tomato soup is totally justified because our mane has suddenly transformed itself into hair-tossing, shine glinting under studio lights, Pantene commercial-type hair.

My hairdresser, who is also my friend (like the Hair Club president, who is also a client) gifted me with the shampoo/conditioner set for my birthday many, many months ago. That night I went directly home and smathered the new conditioner all over my head because obviously I have a rocking social calendar. And like the elusive Perfect Couch, I had suddenly found my Perfect Conditioner. It miraculously tamed my unruly locks into luscious waterfalls of dark silk and I found myself gently stroking the newly smooth strands for many days afterwards, still in disbelief that the lightly scented pink cream could perform such a mighty transformation.

Seven months later, when I’d finally scraped the last of the conditioner from the insides of the container, I happily drove over to my friend’s salon to hand her a fifty-dollar check. And then two weeks later I justified a thirty-dollar bottle of shine serum because when she fixed my hair with this product, the angels wept tears of baby kittens and sunshine. The pain from all those years of buying products even more generic than Suave had finally burst forth from my chest cavity and I felt the shame, OH THE SHAME, just melt away. I had officially crossed the threshold into a Person Who Can’t Quit Their Job and Move to Maine Because They Have Expensive Maintenance Charges. I must forever rely on my paycheck to keep me in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed, expensive hair products and all. Oh, and shoes. Mustn’t forget the shoes.