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.
On My Head