Product Whore

Today I am going to write about something totally frivolous, fluffy and in all ways superficial. Product.

I am an unabashed girly girl, and being the daughter of a hairdresser, I come by it honestly. I grew up around the greats; John Paul De Joria, Vidal Sassoon, Jose Eber. Back in the day, they were still humble enough to attend trade shows, to which my mother obligingly conveyed me with gratifying regularity. At these shows, which were redolent of aerosol and acrylic fumes, product was flagrantly and stylishly hawked in every available inch of floor space. Mere moments upon arrival at my very first show, a Product Whore was born.

These days, I do not have the luxury of spending my entire income on product as I did when I was a teenager paying my dues behind a cash register at the local Shopko. But I still have a strong affinity for product, which I indulge to the extent that I am able without taking food from the mouths of my children or adversely affecting the pursuit of my other addictions (books, tarts, all things vintage).

My mom no longer does hair; crappy hours, crappy pay, and too much exposure to noxious chemicals that do god knows what to your innards. But she does maintain her license so that she can get product at wholesale. Once a year, I go up there and embark on a product spree of such wanton hedonistic gluttony it that makes Imelda Marcos' little shoe problem seem insignificant. If we fly, I check an empty suitcase to haul my spoils home. If we drive, my husband wordlessly attaches the rooftop luggage carrier, and transfers money from the rainy day fund. Hey, I bore him two ginormous male children, its the least he can do.

So now you know my dirty little secret. BA is a Product Whore. Yeah. I try to come off all highbrow and stuff, but the fact is, I would do bad things for good product.

We all have our crosses to bear.