I could go into business. I could become famous for the girl who brought life to the hair of millions of women and single-handedly destroyed the beauty product industry. Forget your one hundred and eighty dollar hair treatment down at Blondie’s Hair Dos or that product-crammed shelf you never speak of. Use my formula, pocket your pennies and take to the streets, screaming, ‘Down with the monster! Send the buffalo broke!’
Okay. It’s true that your hair is as dead as a squashed emu from day one and that exposing a global, trillion dollar industry might take more than a single-handed effort. But I could find willing helpers. I could lead a hot-blooded protest march through town, throw rotten cabbage at the local Priceline store and end up triumphantly arrested and on the front page of the Herald’s Sun, screaming my innocent in the face of corporate injustice.
Or I could just tell you my formula and keep my police record squeaky clean. It could be better for all those concerned. Besides, those chubby policemen with rolly polly bellies scare the carrots off me.
So. If you’re like me and lately your conversation with the mirror has been along the lines of, ‘Hey, like the Limpy Slug Dreads with Extra Oil look’, listen up. Maybe, like me, the thought of walking into Priceline to find the cure and spending the whole time hiding from those chirpy ‘Can we help you?’ sales girls gives you the wellies.
But your days of hiding behind a stand of baby products from shark eyed sales clerks are now over. All you need is body wash.
It all came about because my chats with the mirror haven’t been pleasant of late. During the last few months, I’m sure I could have made a tidy profit on the amount of oil my head’s been pumping out. I could have launched the full scale marine, air, and land based search needed to discover the bottled remedy, but like I’ve said, those Priceline chicks and I don’t transmit the same brain wave.
I remembered a friend saying that oily hair was the result of vitamin-stripping shampoo. I was convinced there was a way of replenishing my follicles without spending a dime. I just need to replace the goodness and all would be peachy, right?
So I did something weird. I put facial cream through my wet locks. Hey, the stuff did wonders for my freckles, why not my hair? The Result: Some extra slugs to dangle about my face. It wasn’t until I was enjoying the aroma and foam of my favourite shower body milk that my hippocampas moment happened: I applied it to my hair.
Eureka. My hair formula was born. My Palmolive Milk & Honey shower milk has completely shut down the profitable oil mine in my skull and replenished the barren slim wasteland with daisies and three leaf clover. Today is day three of my journey as a new woman and my locks are still wavy, lush and gorg-er-us.
I’m Wonder Woman. I’m revitalised. I’m running wild and free past aisles of bottled lies and laughing evilly as I feel the wind in my hair.
Catch me if you can, sales girl.