Last week I headed to Lush, the store that makes soap out of food, to restock one of my primary humours- along with soy lattes, I am propelled through the world by Goth Juice, the vegan hairstyling product inspired by the Mighty Boosh that I first loved here. I stood in the middle of the store and looked around, casually, and then with ever-growing confusion, until a nice girl with a fashionable haircut broke the news to me- that Goth Juice, Made from the Tears of Robert Smith, had been dropped from the LUSH offering. I dropped to my knees and started gasping like a trout, and regretted the carefree, sloppy vigor with which I had dispatched my last tub of product. If I had known, I said, I would have made it LAST, maybe frozen a little bit for a special occasion, like my marriage to Noel Fielding, or the funeral of the person who discontinued Goth Juice.
Growing up, reading the deeply Red State publication, the Dallas Morning News, there was a weekly editorial in which elderly ladies published letters seeking obscure beauty products, in colors and textures that had long since fallen off the cultural map. I felt the same way as poor Enid, dragging pen across dry paper, trying to find the cardamom knee rouge that had driven all the soldiers wild at the swing dance. But still, I write a regretful ode to my lost product.
Purple. Slippery but dry, like the SLIME toy that was sold in the 80′s until every carpeting had SLIME mashed liberally into it. It smelt like pine trees, or like a linoleum floor that had been washed with something that smelt like pine trees. Lightweight and evoking Vince Noir and gravity-defying satsumas. Infinitely superior to the greasy King of the Mods, which inexplicably survives. If no-one else loved you, Goth Juice, I loved you.