The Tyranny of Choice (and My Hair is Paying the Price)

There was a time when buying shampoo was simple.

You had hair. You washed it. That was it.

Growing up, I knew I had curly hair. That fact didn’t change much—because there weren’t curly-hair-specific routines in every aisle and algorithm. There was shampoo. Maybe a conditioner if you were feeling fancy. Then, at 12, someone told me conditioner was necessary. Then I found out I’d been using it wrong. Then I was told serum was essential. Then masks. Then oiling.

Oiling—once met with wrinkled noses and western judgement—was suddenly chic. The clean girl aesthetic rebranded it, packaged it in minimalist bottles, and sold it back to us at ten times the price. And there I was, caught between tradition and trend, trying to do right by my hair.

By college, I had a full-blown ritual. Shampoo for the scalp. Conditioner from mid-length to ends. Serum to make it all look effortless. The irony? It was never effortless. It was meticulous. My hair became a canvas I was constantly correcting, contorting, calming.

Then came TikTok. And suddenly, everything I thought I knew was wrong. Sulfates were the enemy. Silicones, too. pH balance was gospel. Argan oil had to be infused, not applied. Hair needed to be brushed while wet. Preferably upside down. Preferably during a full moon, probably.

I was drowning in advice. Contradictions wrapped in confidence. One minute, I was told to embrace my curls. The next day, I was punished for not having cared for them properly all along. And of course, every celebrity had a shampoo now. I wanted to support Rachel Green’s LoLavie, but I didn’t have Rachel Green's hair.

So I stood in the shampoo aisle, paralysed.

Me. A functioning adult. With a fully developed frontal lobe. Unable to choose a bottle of shampoo.

The worst part? I knew the game. I understood how marketing worked, how influencers swayed, and how beauty was packaged and sold. And yet, I still wanted someone to tell me what to do. I wanted an expert. But the experts didn’t agree.

My dermatologist recommended a drugstore brand—no scent, no frills. It worked. But it didn’t smell like coconut and vanilla and me.

Eventually, I cracked. I gave up the power of choice. I handed it—quietly, unofficially—to my best friend. She had always known what to do. The one who once threatened someone with an umbrella on my behalf. The one who knew what my skin needed before I did. If I could trust her with my life, I could trust her with my hair.

She didn’t even realise she was making the decision. I call it a referral. But the relief was real.

And that relief? It made me realise how deeply tired I was.

Because this isn’t about shampoo.

It’s food. Do I go keto? Paleo? Vegan? Should I eat like a caveman? Should I eat like my grandmother?

It’s dating. Although my delusions think I’ll meet a broody Jensen Ackles type at a bookstore, and he’ll be all dark academia dressed with a Jake Peralta personality, I am not on these apps. But I have friends on them. Am I on the right app? Should I text first? Should I wait? Will I ever find someone who reads Virginia Woolf but laughs like Jake Peralta? Who broods like Jensen Ackles but thinks I'm magic when I'm sleep-deprived and unfiltered?

It’s work. It’s home. It’s Netflix. It’s every OTT platform screaming for my attention. And after thirty minutes of scrolling, filtering, and second-guessing, I end up watching the same show again. The world has labelled it a 'comfort show.' Experts on the internet have diagnosed me with ADHD or some deep trauma yet to surface as the reason behind my relentless rewatching. But truly? There’s just too much to choose from. And now we’re even outsourcing these choices—banking on AI to serve us what we might like, to save us from the floopiness. Honestly, I’m feeling floopy. What show should I watch?

And I know— we live in an age of abundance. Of access. Of agency. And that’s something people have fought for. We should be grateful.

But I’m also allowed to be exhausted. To be overwhelmed by the constant barrage of what’s best. Because too much choice doesn’t always empower. Sometimes, it paralyses.

I’ve lived out of a suitcase. For a whole year. I know what I need. I know what I can do without. I know what to grab when the building’s on fire. But minimalism outside of survival? It’s another industry now. Another aesthetic. Another decision to get right.

So, where does that leave us?

Here’s where I’ve landed: in a world overflowing with options, maybe the most radical act is to share the weight of choice.

To say— I don’t know everything. But I know who does.

We don’t have to navigate this alone. We can let the friend who reads ingredient labels like novels tell us which shampoo to buy. We can let the one with perfect eyebrows explain retinol. We can let the one who survived three bad relationships and still loves fearlessly swipe for us when we’re tired of love.

We can lean. Not because we’re weak. But because we’re human.

And maybe that’s the quiet cure. Not fewer choices. But softer shoulders to rest the choosing on.

Maybe the smartest choice isn’t always in the aisle. Maybe it’s standing right next to you, holding an umbrella, saying: “I’ve got this one.”

Disclaimer: My friend never actually hurt anyone with that umbrella of hers.

P.S. My comfort shows are Parks and Rec and Brooklyn 99 (Also the first 12 seasons of Grey's Anatomy. I couldn't go on knowing Karev's spoilers. Like he would leave Jo with a letter? Pfft, he'd be the kind who made Izzie move to Seattle so he could play husband to Jo, best friend obviously to Mer, and a great father to his kids. He would not leave with just a letter!)

P.P.S. I wrote this essay originally in 2023.