I have long hair. My hair is so long I could be mistaken for a member of a fundamentalist sect, were it not for my partiality to geeky T-shirts and Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Not only is my hair long, it sucks up humidity like a gorram sponge. Twenty minutes after I brush it on any day with the slightest amount of moisture in the air, it puffs up like a before picture in a product ad.
There is only one tool that can tame my mane, and that tool is the oft-despised scrunchie.
The scrunchie has a terrible reputation, and I’m here to plead its case. Not only has Cosmo tainted the idea of this hard-working hair-tamer by turning it into a cock ring, everyone from Carrie on Sex and the City to various ladymags have called it the worst crime against fashion since toe socks.
The poor, maligned scrunchie has quietly helped millions of women keep hair out of their mouths without yanking it out at the root for lo these many decades. It stays comfortably on a wrist without cutting of the circulation to one’s thumb. It’s nearly impossible to lose a scrunchie, and scrunchies are too big to be eaten by most pets. A scrunchie can double as a cigarette case, keeping your Bic snuggled against your pack of Camels. They’re even machine washable.
Sure, a scrunchie can be garish. I’d go as far as to say a lamÃ© or neon scrunchie could be described as an eyesore.
My personal collection of scrunchies are all a shade of brown not all that different from my hair color, and none of them are the size of dinner plates, as the example above.
Additionally, if this badass can pull it off, so can the rest of us.
Curse the Croc, jab at jorts, vilify the visible panty line, but leave my goddamned scrunchie alone until it’s wrapped around my cold, dead wrist.