The young employee at Claire’s saw me hold up this curious black contraption and asked, ‘What is that?’
I smiled the smile of someone who has survived dial-up internet and low-rise jeans.
‘Child,’ I said, ‘you are witnessing the sacred Hair Halo of the 1990s.’
Back in my day, every bathroom drawer had one of these tangled up with butterfly clips, scrunchies, frosted lipstick, and enough body glitter to violate several OSHA regulations. You didn’t simply wear it—you negotiated with it. You’d stretch that springy thing until you were convinced it was about to snap, slide it behind your ears, and let it settle onto your head with all the tenderness of a folding lawn chair.
Then came the ritual. Using the end of a rat-tail comb, you’d patiently pull little sections of hair through each loop. One. By. One. It took forever, but when you were done, you looked ready for school picture day, a trip to the mall, or to meet your friends at the food court before catching a movie.
If you got it wrong, you looked like you’d lost a fight with static electricity. If you got it right, you looked like you were about to star in a Delia’s catalog.
The poor Claire’s employee stared at me as if I were explaining how to rewind an audio tape with a pencil. That’s when it hit me—I had become a living museum exhibit, one of the last remaining keepers of forgotten Y2K-era beauty technology.
I gently hung it back up and said, ‘Respect this relic. It has survived frosted tips, inflatable furniture, Tamagotchis, and the collective panic over the year 2000.’ After she told me she LOVED the new JNCO extra wide leg jeans, I wandered off to walk my old ass into the sea, satisfied that the ancient knowledge had been passed on to the next generation
