By Jennifer Witt
I have hair envy. Let me take you back to the seventh grade. The year was 1985. I had a mousy haircut and a muted color. Just like any other 14-year-old into experimenting, I decided to take a walk on the wild side and emulate my favorite role model at the time. She had an asymmetrical cut, golden blond highlights and I had more posters of her in my room than the Louvre does French Impressionist art.
She was Belinda Carlisle of The Go-Go’s and I wanted to be just like her. I pranced around my room wearing off-the-shoulders tees, big belts and leggings, doing my best impersonation of “We’ve Got the Beat” in the mirror.
After months of convincing, my mother consented to finally let me get my hair done in a similar fashion and soon enough, I walked out of the salon with a bouncy blond bob and proceeded to sing “Oooooh Heaven Is A Place on Earth” all the way home. (Think: annoyance factor similar to that of 100 Bottles of Beer On the Wall – sorry Mom!)
I was the envy of every friend at school on Monday. Even the popular girls gave me the thumbs up, and my life was forever changed. Not because I had an insta-boyfriend or because uber-cool Denise Thompson had started saying hello to me. Because once you color your hair, you can almost never go back.
Now, get back in your time machine and punch in the year 2005. It is May 6th and a fly on the wall will tell you that I’m desperately trying to get an appointment at the salon to touch up my roots and get those fried ends chopped. My hair is in a state of wild disarray and my frequent VO5 Hot Oil Treatment and Pantene Deep Conditioning regiment is doing little to salvage my lackluster locks. In the immortal words of Jerry Garcia, I need a miracle!
And lo and behold, the Hair Diety up above must have taken pity on me for she sent me just that: salvation in the form of the HairMax Laser Comb. I like to think of it as a “Hair Club for Women” with its promise to stimulate your scalp and produce a thicker, stronger, more lustrous mane. Of course, men can use it too and don’t think I don’t have all my male pals lining up for their turn to combat those receding hairlines. You only have to use the comb three times a week, brushing it through your hair for 10 minutes, which I think mathematically equates to the 100 strokes per day myth we always heard about growing up. I’m no scientist, so I can’t explain the technology behind the laser, but I can attest to the treatment being easy, pain and hassle-free and worth the investment of time and money.
Within a month, my hair had all the volume of a Beastie Boys concert and those ends were not splitting as fast as I do on a bad date. I even caught a glimpse of it cascading – I love that word – down my back like those fancy hair models in the Suave ads. I have another month to go to see full effects, so I might end up being a candidate for “Best Hair” class of ’85 were the yearbook to be updated. I love my laser comb. The hair envy is a thing of the past, now, if they’d just invent a Butt Blaster that actually worked, I think I could give Denise Thompson a run for her money, once and for all.
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