I didn’t set out to become high-maintenance, really I didn’t. I was tripping along, clam-happy, unmanicured, and completely wash-and-go through my 20s with nary a problem. Then I hit my 30s and the hair products, moisturizers, serums, scrubs, buffs and antiwrinkle creams hit the fan, or, more appropriately, my face.
Granted, I’ve always been vain and completely silly about my hair. Leave in, rinse out, deep conditioners, masks, color enhancers, frizz tamers, you name it, I’ve probably sat around with it steeping on my head for 30 minutes or longer at some point in my life.
Some profess to believe in all-natural products made with butters, balms and banana peels (for all I know).
Me, I’ve always been partial to the artificial. Better living through chemistry I say. I lean toward hair care chockfull of delicious chemicals that you cannot even begin to pronounce like ammonium lauryl sulfate and guar hydroxypro-pyltrimonium chloride.
Granted, words like these bring back traumatic flashbacks to childhood spelling bees, but one must suffer for beauty.
Surprised. I’m comfortable with stressing over my split ends. It’s my skin that’s starting to alarm me. My complexion is beginning to crave attention in a particularly dramatic fashion.
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