Hair Advert Quotes

Ask any Ferrari, Porsche or Ray-Ban salesperson about their average customer and you will very likely hear that he is not, as the adverts would have us believe, a virile young footballer with shiny hair, a rippling six pack and a trouser pouch like a new punch bag. He is, in fact, a middle-aged bloke wearing more chins than he started life with and carrying the clear evidence of forty years of beer and pies slung across his midriff.

It’s always surprised me that people fall for shampoo adverts that say it revitalises the hair. Hair has never had any life in it that can be revitalised. Hair’s dead, a cuticle of keratin growing out of a follicle. It’s got as much of life and you in it as the excrement you squeeze out. Hair is history, it’s what you’ve been, eaten and done. And you can’t go back. Grete’s perm was a mummified past, a permafrost, frightening as death itself.

A television set in Florida refused to let itself be turned off; until its owners took an axe to it, it continued, on or off, presenting inferior music and stale movies and endless, maddening advertising, and even under the axe, with its last sigh, it died with the praises of a hair tonic on its lips.

As she did so, a bullet fizzed by her ear and an advert that implied the secret to a long and happy life was well-conditioned hair shattered.

They are examin’d skeptickally. “Not from the Press, are you?” “ ’Pon my Word,” cry both Surveyors at once. “Drummers of some kind’s my guess,” puts in a Countryman, his Rifle at his Side, “am I right, Gents?” “What’ll we say?” mutters Mason urgently to Dixon. “Oh, do allow me,” says Dixon to Mason. Adverting to the Room, “Why aye, Right as a Right Angle, we’re out here to ruffle up some business with any who may be in need of Surveying, London-Style,— Astronomickally precise, optickally up-to-the-Minute, surprisingly cheap. The Behavior of the Stars is the most perfect Motion there is, and we know how to read it all, just as you’d read a Clock-Face. We have Lenses that never lie, and Micrometers fine enough to subtend the Width of a Hair upon a Martian’s Eye-ball. This looks like a bustling Town, plenty of activity in the Land-Trades, where think yese’d be a good place to start?” with an amiability that Mason recognizes as peculiarly Quaker,— Friendly Business.

Anyway, now after this revolution this book argues that things have gone a bit too far. Women, like, HAVE to be sexual now. To the point where our 'sexiness' is making us into, like, a sexiness product. I mean, look at all the gross porn all the guys at college watch, for one. Or any advert where a woman washes her hair and gets an orgasm from her shampoo. Or the way you can't buy a pair of denim shorts now that cover your butt cheeks. Or how in adverts for anything, women's bodies aren't shown as a whole--we're just disjointed legs, or cleavages, or hands -- just our sexual bits cut off and shoved onto a page to sell a watch or something. Women are 'supposed' to be sexy now--otherwise we're prudes, or one of those hairy feminists nobody wants to sleep with. You see how we're judged all the time? How awful it is to be described as no one wanting to shag you? We have to be 'hot' now, otherwise we've failed at life. And if we achieve stuff and we're not hot--it's the first thing people lob at us to undermine everything we've achieved.