The Sisley Hair Mask That Fed More Than Just My Ends

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The Purchase

I bought it the day I cut off eight inches.

The salon mirror showed the damage—ends like frayed rope, bleached one too many times by heartbreak and bad decisions. The stylist whistled. "Honey, even Olaplex has limits." She pointed to a pearlized jar on the shelf. "This is French hospital food for hair."

I swiped my card before the numbness wore off.

First Use (Or, How to Sit With Your Damage)

The scent hit first—honeyed orchids and something medicinal underneath. The texture was thick as regret, clinging to my palms like it knew I'd try to wash it off too soon.

"Leave it 10 minutes," the instructions said. I lasted two before checking my phone. A text from him blinked. I rinsed in scalding water.

The mask slid down the drain, wasted.

The Ritual That Became Reckoning

I tried again:

- Tuesday: Left it on through half a bottle of wine and Casablanca. Hair dried softer.

- Thursday: Used too much. The bathroom smelled like a Parisian greenhouse for days.

- Sunday: Let my sister borrow it. "This costs how much?" she gasped, fingers gloved in cream.

Slowly, the mask taught me:

- Patience: 10 minutes of not running from silence.

- Excess: Sometimes you need too much richness.

- Investment: Not everything can be fixed with a $5 drugstore hack.

The Science of Surrender

Sisley claims "keratin-restoring lipids." I say it restored my ability to:

1. Touch my hair without wincing

2. Accept that some damage needs time, not scissors

3. Believe expensive things can be for me

The Turning Point

Six weeks in, a stranger stopped me. "Your hair looks expensive."

It wasn't a compliment. It was an autopsy.

I laughed. "It is."

The Accident

Left the jar uncapped. My cat dipped a paw in. For a week, he smelled like a French widow.

Worth it.

The Lesson in the Jar

The mask ran out last month. I kept the container—now holding bobby pins and a note:

"Some things can't be rushed. Not hair. Not healing."

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