With all good meals, the aroma precedes the feast. The same can be said for good nights out. To this day, my makeup and hair are reliably the best part of my evening’s plans. My earliest experiences with the frenzied and glamorous congress that is “getting ready” came before high school dances at a neighboring all-boys Catholic school—a monthly event designed to reinforce heteronormative socialization, I imagine. For us, though, it meant access to an unexplored population of cute boys—always preceded by the pungent scent of burnt hair mixed with styling cream, oil, and hairspray.
Arriving in individual clouds of Victoria’s Secret Pear Glacé, Bath & Body Works Cucumber Melon, Tommy Hilfiger Tommy Girl, and Ralph Lauren Blue, we gathered at the house of whoever’s parent was driving us that night, wearing our parent-proofed demure Gap cardigans over our risqué-for-a-teenager, going-out tops from Forever21. And even though we all showed up ready, last looks were subject to group assessment in the bedroom mirror.
I was not allowed to wear makeup, so my house was a non-starter. That’s probably why the getting-ready-together-of-it-all felt most crucial to me—I always had a lot of catching up to do. I had thick black hair that fell down past my shoulders and, try as I might, was neither straight nor wavy but more “bendy:” straight on top, flipping inwards or outwards depending on how I tried to coax it. This is pre-reality TV barrel waves, and just shy of deep side-part, jagged MySpace hair. The era of Avril Lavigne pin-straight hair. Of every teen romcom involving some sort of hair-straightening makeover. Back then, frizz was demonized the way seed oils are today.
My primary contribution was a purple Conair flat iron that had a convertible crimper feature that I bought from the (now bygone) Jacks .99 cent store in Midtown. It may as well have been a handheld George Foreman grill, the way it barbecued hair into submission. After excessive passes, the air became humid, fragrant with the aroma of burnt hair seared with styling cream and hair oil. The sound of a hushed sizzle as gossamer wisps of smoke rose above our heads was the signal that the Conair was doing its work.
It smelled like a PSA about signs of a house fire, but it also meant… we were ready. That smell, intermingled with finishing spritzes of L’Oreal Elnett hairspray, created a distinct cloud of Crispy Couture (a natural repellent for nosy little brothers).
Did our hair feel good? Of course not. But it looked good—at a slight distance and in low lighting—which was what mattered.
I recently smelled Moroccanoil’s L’Originale eau de parfum—the same scent as its hair oil—and had a time warp moment. It was a reminder of those nights spent waiting for something exciting to unfold. My hair looks and feels much better now—tools have improved a lot, styling products smell like fine fragrances, and we’ve never been so abundantly blessed with mists… but they don’t quite scorch the way I remember.
I can’t say I exactly miss the danger of potential flames—too risky for those of us Minoxidil-maxxing—and you couldn’t pay me to relive my teens and twenties. But when I’ve caught a whiff of that smell on set, in a green room, or backstage when covering NYFW beauty prep, I’m reminded that beauty can feel alive again, simply by adding a little heat. Just don’t forget a thermal protectant spray, please.
Photo via ITG