Susan Smith Facebook ad: “I threw my $400 Dyson flat iron in the trash.”

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1088207097279562

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Hair Care

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I threw my Dyson flat iron in the kitchen trash and pushed it under the coffee grounds so I couldn't change my mind. Four hundred dollars. I hadn't used it in a YEAR, but keeping it felt like giving myself permission to ruin my hair again. Three days later, I was in my hairdresser Sam's chair with a little envelope of broken hair, asking what else I needed to stop doing. She opened the envelope carefully. I apologized for bringing it. Then apologized for crying before she'd even touched my head. I was tired. Tired of buying things to repair the damage and wondering which ordinary thing I'd done that morning had caused more of it. Brushed too hard. Slept wrong. Tied it too tight. Used the wrong towel. A whole year without heat and I was still finding short pieces on my shirt. Sam had done my hair for years. She knew how much I liked it smooth, how I'd ask her to turn the chair so I could see the back after a blowout. Now I was telling her to let it air-dry again, even though I was going out that night. It would dry fluffy around the top and stringy at the ends, and I'd spend dinner pressing it down with damp fingers from my water glass. I'd done that before. She set the envelope on the counter and asked me to show her everything I was worried about. I showed her the ends first. How they went almost transparent at the bottom. The knot at my nape that seemed to put itself back together every time I turned my head. I picked up a broken piece from the cape and held it out like I'd caught the whole problem in one hand. Then she moved the hair at my crown. “What about here?” I didn't like looking there. The broken ends gave me something to do. Another mask, another trim, another rule I could follow. The wider part didn't. For months I'd been calling all the short hair on top breakage. Sam showed me some strands that were still attached and tapered at the ends. They were coming in fine, in an area where she could see less coverage than before. It was different from the snapped pieces I'd brought in. I told her again that I hadn't used the iron for a year. “I know,” she said. “I'm not accusing you.” That's what it had started to feel like, every conversation about my hair. A search for the bad thing I must still be doing. Before I gave up heat, I probably had been too rough with it. I could admit that. But I'd kept trying to pay for it long after I'd stopped. I bought bond repair, timed the masks, slept on silk. At my niece's wedding I went into the bathroom and watched another woman touch up her hair with an iron. I wanted to borrow it for just the front. Then I thought about my brush at home and didn't ask. The expensive iron stayed in my drawer until that week. Somehow owning it had begun to feel like planning to fail. So into the trash it went. Sam asked if I wanted her to trim the damaged lengths. Yes. Then she asked whether I'd ever taken the changing part and the finer hair to the dermatologist, separately from the breakage. No. I'd said, “My hair keeps breaking,” and brought the same envelope. I took pictures of my crown at the salon and brought those to my appointment. This time I explained what had changed near the scalp, how long I'd been avoiding heat, and what still happened to the ends. We could finally talk about two different things. One explanation we discussed was DHT sensitivity. DHT is a hormone women have too, and sensitive follicles can gradually produce finer hairs. I kept thinking about those little attached hairs Sam had shown me. I'd been shopping for something to mend hair I already had, without asking why the hair replacing it seemed different. After the appointment I looked into the DHT side. I came across pumpkin seed oil and then Bloom & Bond's combination with saw palmetto. The oil was included to help reduce DHT production; the saw palmetto to help limit DHT attaching to the follicle. I wanted to support the hair growing in, while Sam and I took care of the damaged length. Both ingredients were in one daily softgel. I liked that. There was already enough ceremony in my bathroom. I ordered Bloom & Bond and took it with dinner, with the 90-day guarantee in mind rather than the expectation that next week's haircut would be unnecessary. I still got the ends trimmed. They still tangled, though less with less damaged length to catch. I stopped holding every snapped piece up to the light as if it could tell me how the hair at my crown was doing. That took practice. There were mornings when I went straight back to it. Over the next few months, I began noticing less hair in my brush. At a later appointment, Sam parted it in the same place and took another picture by the salon window. In the earlier one, the pale line spread out near the crown. In the new one, more hair covered its edges. I kept sliding between the two pictures on her phone. The top was still thin. There were still short, fine hairs. What I liked was being able to see less scalp around them, and not having to drag so much hair across from the other side to cover it. At that appointment she asked if I wanted a smooth finish. I said yes before remembering I usually said no. I went home and kept touching the back of my hair. It wasn't the thick hair I had at thirty. It just looked nice. I had missed being allowed to enjoy that without immediately wondering what it would cost me tomorrow. I eventually bought another iron. A cheaper one, and I use it with care. The old one stayed in the trash. If you've given up heat and bought every repair treatment but the hair growing near your scalp is still getting finer, tap Learn More. Read how Bloom & Bond approaches the DHT side with pumpkin seed oil and saw palmetto. You may need to ask a different question before you give up one more thing you enjoy.

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I threw my $400 Dyson flat iron in the trash.

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