I once believed in the Richard Caruso Molecular Steam Hairsetter.

I believed its patented steam technology had the power to change my life. And life itself was precisely what was at stake at the age of 13.

Developed by a prominent Hollywood hair stylist, the Hairsetter’s steam technology promised the best of both worlds. More power than a curling iron, hair-conditioning instead of hair-damaging.

It wasn’t just a hairsetter. It was a hair curling system—complete with foam rollers and a steaming device that also gave facials.

Really, the Hairsetter wasn’t about your hair. It was about the way you felt about your hair. My new Hairsetter would give me confidence in all-weather conditions, in Santa Ana winds and 90% humidity alike. Even if I wore the same acid-washed stretch jeans every day and chipped my tooth on a rock, my hair could atone for all.

I needed this system badly.

I have the hair equivalent of conjoined twins.

People tell me I’m lucky to have two heads of hair on one head. But they don’t know what it’s like to have the hair you spent 45 minutes curling fall flat by 2nd period. All that effort. For what? One single, solitary bus ride of glory? I wanted consistency! Consistent glory! With no follicular damage! Was that too much to ask?

I became obsessed with the steam curling system.

It was the kind of obsession I kept to myself. No one knew I wanted this product, which only intensified my longing.

There was probably something they weren’t telling me. But the possibilities were irresistible. Better curls without heat damage, as if you’d never curled your hair at all? Isn’t that almost like time travel?

Just because other infomercials sold useless stuff didn’t mean this infomercial sold useless stuff.

I couldn’t just ask my parents to buy the Richard Caruso Molecular Hairsetter.

My parents did not order products sold through toll-free hotlines on TV.

They would sooner buy a Greek goddess statue from a Tijuana outdoor market, or enter (& win) a raffle for a free sofa set at the Pomona County Fair, or order illegal fireworks from Mexico through the mail. All of these things they did, but they drew the line at toll-free hotlines.

Ordering products through toll-free hotlines was something my grandmother did.

Her house was a catalog of things seen on TV. I thought that made her so cool. She was free! Free to buy stuff! Free to realize her full potential! There was Tony Little’s exercise system. An ab exerciser. Fish oil vitamins and life-extending supplements. Even faith in a higher power. My grandma had it all. She had more books than I did. Her personal library was so vast you needed a rolling ladder to reach all of it. She had one of those, too.

I longed to be protected by stuff, by faith, and by my faith in my stuff.

But I had neither stuff nor faith.

Then the Internet came along, changing the rules about buying stuff seen on TV. The Internet was technology. Technology was always okay to invest in. Anything purchased via this technological advancement known as the Internet was therefore okay, too. If you saw an infomercial but then made your purchase online, you weren’t really buying it directly from TV anymore.

No one needed to tell me this. It was a part of the mindset stew in which I had been raised.

At around the time things began to be sold on the internet, I began to have money to spend on things sold on the internet.

I was finally able to secure my very own Richard Caruso Molecular Hairsetter.

The results were just as I had hoped they’d be. But there was just one catch. The system didn’t include enough foam rollers to accommodate all of my hair, so curling became a 2-hour process completed in 15-minute stages.

I was older and didn’t care that much about my hair anymore.

I blamed myself and the future international wig factory on my head for my disappointment—not the Caruso system. Besides, I hadn’t ordered it directly from TV. This was a legitimate store-bought purchase. Nothing to be ashamed of.

It was the end of my own personal steam age, but not the end of my idealism.

I needed to believe in something, so I decided to believe in my own capacity for improvement.

I embarked on a 10-year period of improving myself in the mode of a 19th century schoolteacher.

• I read the classics, and a book on how to read the classics.
• I increased my protein intake.
• I became a runner.
• I joined the Peace Corps.
• I bought several books on Amazon on how to start a business.
• I quit my job and started a business.

Somewhere along the way, I got better at buying stuff off the internet.

And now I help people sell it. Only the “stuff” is really services.

And most of those services somehow relate to improvement. Either for people, businesses, or both.

And everyone knows how badly we need to believe in our potential to improve.

Otherwise, it’s back to steam hairsetters and facial exercisers for all of us.

I’ve been there. I’m not going back.

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