The Power of Pomade

When I was 18 and first out on my own, shopping was an exhilarating experience, flush with possibilities. I felt that I was almost — but not quite — cool, and that all I needed to tip me over the edge to coolness was the perfect pair of shoes. And possibly the right jacket.

I was certain — in the way that only the young can be — that if I could put together the perfect outfits, all of my insecurities would — "poof!" — disappear. I’d feel how I imagined the models in Teen magazine felt: totally at ease with themselves, able to throw on any outfit — with those perfect shoes and that awesome jacket — and look and feel fabulous.

And I did feel pretty suave in the brown distressed-leather bomber jacket I bought with my student loan money. It had an aviation patch over the left chest and a satin lining printed with little fighter planes. I mean, seriously — who wouldn't look cool in that?

Did all my insecurities go away? No. But that’s probably just because I never found the right pair of shoes.

As I’ve gotten older and wiser, I aspire to get joy from life experiences instead of consumer goods. Being cool is less important than it was, and I realize that quality of life comes from a deeper place than my pocketbook.

But occasionally I am hit with the familiar feeling that a certain purchase may hold some great power to transform me.

Take, for instance, hair product.

After a haircut, I always leave feeling a little more awesome than when I came in, especially if I walk out with a new jar of pomade or bottle of spray gel.

Before I’ve actually tried the new hair product, I am filled with hope and optimism: the whole world is open to me. This new hair product may be the secret ingredient for a hipper, funkier, sassier me.

That is, of course, before the post-new-hair-product letdown. Before I realize that by the end of the day, the pomade makes my hair feel like dirty dog fur or that the spray gel creates a helmet-like crust on my hair similar to that chocolate sauce my parents would never buy me when I was a kid that hardened over ice cream like a magic shell.

After my real-life experience with that oh-so-full-of-potential hair product, of course, I’m back to being my usual not-quite-cool-but-mostly-ok-with-it self.

But then, last fall, as I was browsing my usual neighborhood discount store when I should have been working, I glanced at a display and gasped.

Those boots!

They were casual, yet a tiny bit funky. They were just the perfect mix of greyish and brownish. They were priced just low enough. I tried to remain calm as I scanned for my size. Oooh! There it was! I held my breath as I put my extremely picky feet into the boots.

They. Were. Perfect!

I snatched them and ran to the checkout counter, filled with a rush of hope. These were the ones. These would change everything.

I wore them almost every day last fall, winter and spring. I wore them to play in the park. I wore them to business meetings. I wore them out on the town. (I would wear them on a train. I would wear them in the rain. I do like them, Sam I am!)

And you know what? Yes! Those boots did what years of self-exploration could not. I became cool. It was so simple. All I needed, all this time, were those freaking boots.