If you’re observant, which you are, you might have noticed that there were no new posts in February. Maybe you were up late and night, tossing and turning, wondering what was going on. Where is Pillowtown? Is Rachel ok? Rachel is beautiful and smart, she must be ok. These were the thoughts you thought. And thank you. We’re back, after a short hiatus. Did you know you can take a month off of your personal pandemic-born internet newsletter and literally nothing will happen?
So thank you for patiently waiting. School is back in session, and today’s lesson is about customization. Grab your pencils and go get up to sharpen them because the guy you have a crush on is sitting in the front row and you wore your yoga pants today.
My first tangible experience with the art of customization was on the Nike shoe design site. If you’re unfamiliar, it was/is a website where you can start with a white pair of sneakers and choose every color, from the laces to the sole to the tongue to the other part. Sometimes you could even pick a certain texture for one side of the shoe. You could also add lettering to the back so people can see it when you walk. Something cool, like your initials. Or the name of your favorite SNL original cast member. You could rock the Gilda Dunks.
My second confrontation with the game of specialization comes, obviously, in the beauty industry. One day, you saw an ad for a website where you answer a bunch of questions about your skin type, and then you’re redirected to a page that has custom face washes and lotions and serums exactly, and only, for you. Another site asks you about your hair. The porosity, do you wash it x times a week, do you want it to be thicker or straighter or faster or stronger. Now, you can’t just go to CVS and buy the blue bottle of Pantene. You need shampoo that gets you. Shampoo that understands what you need. Shampoo that was there when you were born and has watched you grow up.
What’s the point? It is so simple. We want to be individuals. If you have the same sneakers as your classmate, it’s embarrassing. If you have poop green sneakers with hot pink laces, you are an icon and a visionary. In the lab, as you pick and choose which design will adorn your shoes that will ultimately be worn in an all female hip hip dance group that operates out of a basement behind a Booeymongers, you have a sense of control. Of ownership. Suddenly, these aren’t just shoes. They are your signature. Your scent. Your mark on this world. You made them, and they exist, for you.
It would be trite to say capitalism is to blame for this. It is, but it’s more complicated than that. Capitalism responds to what people think they want, right? Or maybe these companies are convincing us that we need specific products to suit us, because we are so unique. It makes us feel special. It makes us feel like we’re being listened to. It stems from our desire to not be a lost face in the crowd. Not a lost pimple on the forehead. Sure, everyone gets acne, but your acne? It’s from your coworker, Greg. He keeps trying to tell you that he should try standup comedy. He cracked a joke during the all-hands meeting and gazed over at you for approval and you couldn’t give it, because Greg is not funny, he’s just loud. So now you’re anxious. You don’t want it to become a whole thing with Greg. You want to just coexist. That’s what your acne is from. And there’s no aisle for that in CVS.
Industries thrive off of us thinking we need things we don’t. If you have dry skin, you should buy lotion. You don’t need “Denise’s lotion”, you just need lotion. If we spend enough time customizing our lotions and our shampoos and our shoes, we begin to think we’re so different from everyone else. That nobody gets us. That nobody is us so therefore nobody is like us. And this gets scary. People are so afraid of being alike. Of being perceived as “basic”. If you show up in the same jacket as your friend, it’s considered embarrassing. Doesn’t it just mean you have similar taste?
In middle school, the Nike customizer was a ticket to individuality. To making sure you knew, and could project, how unique you were. It was protection against anyone, god forbid, having something you have. But isn’t it beautiful? To pass a stranger on the street wearing your pants? You don’t know them, but at some point in both of your distinct lives, you made the same decision. You don’t know them, but you have one thing in common. Maybe the same targeted ad led you to the same impulse buy. Maybe your aunts both saw the pants at a Madewell near them and sent you the link. You could be friends. You could have even more in common. You might both have dry skin, and there’s lotion for that. Because at the end of the day, we are all sacks of meat. Slabs of meat pieced together to make a beautiful dress. And in the words of Lady Gaga, you were born this way.
The best thing I ate this week:
Was a fava bean stew from Tanoreen in Bay Ridge. It was warm and delicious, comforting and hearty, etc. etc. The staff at Tanoreen were so kind, I felt like I was at a friend’s house. I also had a hibiscus iced tea which turned my paper straw from pink to purple to blue. I love that paper straws are our solution for global climate catastrophe. We’re so good at problem solving. There’s so much good food in Brooklyn, it makes me wonder why most days I eat avocado toast in my house. Oh well!