THING: The Rita Ora compact hairdryer
Some people have magnificent manes – flowing, shining tresses, ice cream cone waves that sit just so, tumultuous curls or cumulus clouds of amazing, healthy, abundant hair. You can stuff cushions with it, write poetry about it, and even conquer the world with it, because you can see at first glance that it’s their life force.
I, however, have hair like this:
My hair is a bit shit, really. It’s thin and mousey, and because it’s got a wave in it, whenever there’s the slightest touch of moisture or humidity, it turns into this:
As a result, I’ve been engaged in a lifelong battle with it. I’ve bleached it, shaved it, covered it in Body Shop henna, dyed it Pillarbox Red, Flamingo Pink, Outrageous Orange and even black (in my wedding photos I look like Kris Jenner). I’ve had bobs, lobs and Karens, highlights, lowlights, T-bars and several far-too-short fringes, like this:
In the end, I settled for shoulder-length blonde, which I thought suited me, but as I get older it just seems to say ‘I’m a middle-aged white lady sitting in a branch of All Bar One’. My hair still actively conspires against me, and I’m actually getting fucking sick of it now. (Please don’t tell me to chop it off and embrace the crop - my head is tiny and my body is NOT, so when I have a short haircut it looks like someone has balanced a Creme egg on top of a wardrobe.)
Instead, I was thinking of not caring anymore and letting my inner Robert Plant fly. So, I’ve been looking into the Curly Girl Method, where you dry it with a t-shirt instead of a towel and use light hold leave-in conditioner instead of weighing it down with regular conditioner. It seemed easy enough, but when I tried it, I looked like this:
I know, though, that somewhere out there, there’s a solution for my head. So to help me on my perilous hair journey, my husband bought me this exciting appliance from the middle of Lidl. BEHOLD the height of sophistication: the Rita Ora hairdryer.
I had no idea this existed, and I’m still somewhat confused by it. I mean, Rita has nice hair, but other than that I’m not sure what the thinking was behind an Ora/Lidl budget haircare collab. Something about blowing lockdown rules?
Apparently, though, this is a Dyson dupe, and I have to admit it’s got a LOVELY heatproof matte finish and blasts at a temperature that could melt your ears. It’s a decent hairdryer, actually, so hats off to you, Rita, and whatever third-party North Korean manufacturer was used to create it at such a knockdown price.
But the big question remained: would it solve my hair problem? Well, for waves, Rita suggests you tip your head upside down and dry the roots, so I did what she said. And now… I look like this:
FFS.
VERDICT: Ora-ble 'air
THING: Dutch Haribo
I always thought the happy world of Haribo was a place where kids and grown ups across the world could gather in peace and harmony. There might be a minor squabble over who gets the fried eggs or the squishy hearts, you might be left with the pineapple-flavoured gummy bears, or perhaps get a Giant Strawb stuck in your teeth, but beyond that, nothing bad could really happen, could it?
Then I experienced Dutch Haribo.
‘Ooh,’ I thought: ‘Zoute Rijen’ is probably Dutch for ‘happy children!’ I mean, okay, maybe eating children is a bit weird, but these cute little squishies are probably, oh I dunno, maybe butterscotch and strawberry and vanilla? Mmm, let’s find out!’
Well. It turns out that Zoute Rijen actually means ‘Salt rows’ and these arseholes are made of LIQUORICE. You can also get Zoute Bommen (‘Salt bombs’), and the less said about that boy on the packet, the better.
Now I know our European counterparts have different tastes, and it’s great that the happy world of Haribo is so inclusive, but this is like discovering a haunted hellmouth in a child’s nursery. I’m off to wash my teeth and say 3000 Hail Marys.
VERDICT: Call Interpol
Didn't you have a pink wig? What's wrong with it?
It's been a shit few weeks and this made me laugh, thankyou 👍