Often you ask whether I’ve ever ran a comb through my hair, taken a proper shower, intentionally weaved tangles into the crevices of my head. I get it. I have weird hair. But that’s no accident. Let me share a small history: the beginning of my infatuation with messy hair started where all good things do: in Paris, during my semester abroad, when after just a few days in the city o’lights all I wanted from life was so perfect that thing French girls do with their hair: always a hint oily, never outwardly dirty. Textured and messy and so damn cool. And so I forfeited my daily shower in hopes my head would do that too and what I learned was simple: what happens in France should stay in France, among its own citizens who evidently have unusual penchants to make shit work that Americans just can’t. Ultimately I started showering again and a few months later fell upon the above photographed. It’s a bottle full of whatever French dreams your head can conjure up. And now my secret is out. SuRf SpRaY, friends. It’s texture, it’s sticky, it’s weird, you’re welcome.