You know that musty smell in an older building when the heat is turned on in the winter and starts circulating for the first time in a year? Imagine that scent, but mixed with what I suppose it might smell like if you fried the hair of a child’s doll, and then you also add in the smell of a sweaty locker room in which something has died. That’s sort of what singes your nostrils the first time you uncork a bottle of Burnt Hair, the newly available perfume from Elon Musk’s The Boring Co. — which I, for some reason, decided to buy, and for which I have only been able to come up with one acceptable use case thus far.
It’s clear to me that all Elon needs to do to prep for his will-they-or-won’t-they cage fight with Meta CEO Mark Zuckerberg is to liberally splash some Burnt Hair on himself to augment his natural musk. Elon does that, and I don’t care how much Zuckerberg has turned himself into a sleek and toned fighting machine. It’ll be game over before you can even dash off a quick Threads post about what just transpired.
Elon, if you’re reading? Burnt Hair is your impossible-to-counter weapon against Zuck.
Honestly, I don’t know what possessed me to buy this absurd product, and I also have no idea how I’m going to safely dispose of it. I’m sure I’ll think of something once the candles I’m burning have finally vanquished the noxious fumes I stupidly released into my apartment.
The packaging, by the way, is infinitely more thoughtful than a perfume that smells this bad deserves. The fragrance itself comes in an attractive bottle, nestled inside thoughtful Boring Co. packaging — upon which is written what I suppose is the Burnt Hair slogan (“The essence of repugnant desire.”)
Burnt Hair, of course, is the latest in what’s been a string of joke products that Elon’s companies have released — including Tesla-branded Tequila as well as The Boring Co.’s Not A Flamethrower. Unfortunately, for any of you curious souls who might be interested, Burnt Hair is currently sold out, but try not to feel too bad about it. Just imagine the smell of gasoline mixed with regret, and you’re halfway there.