(Win)hair

Now that I’ve started taking showers in the shower rather than supine in bed and am thus able to wash my hair the old-fashioned way, I’ve become, for perhaps the first time in my life, open to the possibility that expensive shampoo, conditioner, and styling goops might make a difference.

To clarify, I in no way believe that everyone can or should dole out the money that a costly routine of this nature requires. It’d be more accurate, then, to say that I no longer scoff at the idea that spending more than a minute of time taking care of my personal grooming could be worth it.

I put two and two together a week or so ago. When I’m deeply unwell, especially when I’m floundering in the bottomless pit of anorexia nervosa and/or having frequent seizures, I cease caring about my appearance. Contrary to common belief, people with eating disorders aren’t (always) motivated by a desire to achieve a certain look. In my case, I’m in fact ashamed of the version of me that is very much not thriving. I avoid the mirror, I refuse to have my picture taken, and I neglect self-care. Why bother, I think. Why invest time and resources in a sinking ship? That ship, of course, being the iceberg-impaled vessel called my corporal self.

As it turns out, it’s kind of nice to want to have nice hair. It’s even nicer to be physically able to take steps toward achieving it.

My first shower after a (forced) two-year hiatus was all about scrubbing the first layer of buildup from my poor, much-abused scalp, which had been ravaged by whatever chemicals are in those rinse-free shampoo caps that miraculously but creepily do a decent job eliminating the most egregious scum but leave behind grime of their own. I slathered on a generous dose of my husband’s “good” shampoo and conditioner (i.e., the slightly nicer drugstore stuff that costs less than $5.00 a bottle). Having nothing in recent memory to which to compare it, it sure felt like luxury to me.

As was perhaps inevitable, I almost immediately wanted more. If my hair was this smooth after a single wash with mediocre products, would it not transform into literal silk after being treated to top-shelf stuff?

When my best friend and hair idol heard that the one-year anniversary of my last discharge and my reinitiation to the High Order of Hair Washers happened to coincide, she told me to cease and desist before placing an order. (She knows me well. I had already wasted hours poring over Sephora’s offerings and reading beauty-related subreddits. Once a researcher, always a researcher.)

A large box arrived a few days ago. It contained an assortment of five bottles and tubes.

My patron saint of hair and I spoke that afternoon, and she gave me dizzyingly complicated instructions in two variations. A few hours later, I hopped (OK, side-slid) into the shower and dutifully carried out the first of the three-step routines.

The next day, I received three unprompted compliments on hair that until a week earlier had hung in gross clumps that I did my best to tame using hairbands and clips and dry shampoo.

The morals of the story? First, that focusing on aspects of my appearance that I can non-self-destructively control can be a real self-esteem booster. Second, that I have people in my life who go above and beyond to make me feel like I’m not a weirdo for being excited about having a shower—kind souls who facilitate my doing so in the most indulgent manner possible. Third, that by making an effort to care about myself, I’m teaching myself to, well, care about myself. This week, the physical target of my quest to figure out who I want to be is my hair. Next month, who knows?