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# Product
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/product/
- Published: 2026-09-16T17:15:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:04:43.000Z
- Description: “Product,” on emergent curl task forces, written Wednesday, September 16, 2026 poem 259 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "We're Gonna Need More Product!," by Diana Ludwick © 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Dry Humor, Faux Lament, Generational, Humor, Of Place, Poems, Unserious, Appendages, Back to School, Class Picture Day, Curly, Dyson, Good Hair Class, Hair, Hair Products, Late Summer, Oribe, Product, September, Statue, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

"Are you afraid of volume?"   
Her friend barrels through the front door,   
an armload of products and corded devices  
precariously teetering in her slender limbs.  
  
My daughter is a statue,  
with frozen appendages   
yet darting eyes,   
shifting to seek a right answer.  
  
"Let's get you CURLY!   
"Bring me to your bathroom!"  
The pal's commanding voice makes me think to comply, too.  
I peer my head over the second floor landing;  
see one wet head and one curly head turn for the hall bath.  
  
I put together, slowly,   
that this play date has a chief purpose:  
to prepare my teen   
for tomorrow's class picture day.  
  
For more than the length of a Hollywood movie,  
I hear a duet of voices enunciating loudly   
over the shrill of a roaring Dyson.  
  
There is laughter and chastising;   
"Does your mom own mousse?"  
And: "Can you go grab her styling tool?"  
And then:   
"WE'RE GONNA NEED MORE PRODUCT!"  
  
My headstrong daughter is abnormally compliant.  
She soaks in the advice and the critiques   
and the Curly Girl techniques as if sacred texts,   
as if her brain itself is a thirsty follicle wanting for pomade.  
  
As if her mother   
does not have life-long curls  
as if she did not inherit   
those *Splash*\-worthy ringlets  
from somewhere close to home.  
  
I hear her scaling the stairs  
I duck into my office; unseen, as always.  
Entering my bedroom boldy, freely.  
She riffles about as if her own stockroom,  
and after two minutes of searching and looting,  
she hustles out again.  
  
I peek after her;   
she dashes down the stairs.  
As she scampers down,  
a bottle of Oribe Eternal Curls polish  
slips through her overeager,   
under-precise arm hold,  
clattering down steps:   
Clang,   
clang,   
clang,   
clunk.  
  
Giggles and blow drying resume.  
Doorbell rings;   
a mom to pick up her stylist in training.  
My own child emerges with  
a glowy face and a crown of ringlets,   
alive with volume, bounce, and shine.  
  
I marvel at them, at their co-creation.   
Until, that is, I need my Dyson back,  
and I descend to the makeshift salon  
to find curly chaos unleashed and unmitigated.  
  
Which, luckily for the household teen,  
I found after she left for the bus  
and her Good Hair Day class portrait.