Every once in a while you stumble upon a product that makes you wonder how you ever survived before. You keep waiting for it to malfunction, proving that your trust was premature and your faith in all things manufactured misaligned, but consistently it performs above all expectations. Life is never quite the same again and you find yourself scanning the shelves for back-up supplies in the same frantic manner Y2K fanatics scavenged bottled water, Vienna sausages and Energizer batteries.
One unfortunate aspect of this life-transforming product is the name given to it by the brilliant scientists who labored intensively over the intrinsic functionality and design. I can’t support the appearance of the final result, wondering why in the world one would smear the reputation of such a fine product with such a ridiculous name, but also admit in a way that is clearly conflicted, that I am beyond JOYFUL with its perfect and long sought after function.
The product? Hairspray.
The name on the side of the can is obnoxious, and LARGE, and screams to the other nosy shoppers checking out your grocery cart that your intention in buying this product is to secure BIG SEXY HAIR. It’s rather embarrassing, and not exactly accurate, considering that my only true desire is to tame the unruly “Bon Jovi Concert hair” God blessed me with to make Himself laugh.
(Blessed is obviously a term I am using loosely. If not properly contained, my hair has the potential to grow exponentially throughout the day, resembling this:
A blessing? Not so much.)
Finally, I have found a hairspray that minimizes the “bigness” and corrals all of the frizzy hairs that are begging to escape and terrorize others. This product recognizes frizzy as evil, killing it instantly and without remorse. And to top it all off, I don’t end up looking like an Aqua-Net NUT with stiff hair that doesn’t move for days on end.
So, to disguise any embarrassment the product name brings me, I typically conceal it under a box of tampons- curious eyes scanning over my grocery cart stop dead at the word Kotex – or make John buy the hairspray. (Not really, but I do plan on making the friendly suggestion tonight.)
A couple of days ago, Chase walked into my bathroom as I was fixing my hair and noticed the hairspray I was using.
“That’s kind of an inappropriate name on that can, don’t you think?” asked Chase, my wise and “more mature than his mom” son.
“I know, Chase. I love the hairspray but need to figure out a way to do something with the name,” I sheepishly replied. “For now, just don’t look at it.”
(I know, OUTSTANDING parental advice. Just don’t look at it? For heaven's sake.)
A few hours later, I discovered that my nine year old, clearly concerned about my inappropriateness, had taken care of the problem for me: