Transcription
This is a pearl. It's one of the simplest, loveliest forms of nature. I like the idea of nature. Hey there. Ready for a reality check?
These 1070s trends looked like gold in the ads, but landed somewhere between awkward, painful, and downright ridiculous once you tried them yourself.
Number one, Dorothy Hamill cut. A gold medal mistake for most. Go ahead, blow dry your hair. You'll get some body. But Dorothy Hamill needs more than that to make her hair look and feel its best. She twirled. She flipped. She won gold. And suddenly, girls across America marched into salons with one demand. Give me the Dorothy. Now, sure, it worked on her, but she was a professional athlete with a glam squad and cheekbones sharp enough to slice through disco fog. On the average teenager, the results varied wildly. That cute wedge shape needed constant maintenance. The right head shape and a blow dryer that could double as a jet engine. And heaven help you if your hair decided to flip out instead of under. Then you were stuck looking like a confused mushroom until it grew out. Stylists made a killing that year. So did hat companies.
Number two, jumpsuits. The fashion trap you had to peel off to pee. Jumpsuits were the dream. One zip and boom, you were stylish. They made you look put together, sleek, and like you maybe had your life figured out. But that illusion shattered the moment nature called. Going to the bathroom in a jumpsuit was like escaping an escape room. You'd find yourself half naked in a public restroom, wrestling with zippers and buttons while trying not to touch anything. And if you were tall, forget it. Most jumpsuits gave you a permanent wedgie and left your wrists cold. They were the sartorial version of a trust fall. And let's just say a lot of us hit the ground.
Number three, Sun In for hair that glowed like a traffic cone. Wow, that summer look. That summer look. Sun In promised golden sun-kissed highlights with no damage. What it delivered was a nation of teens walking around with orange hair that looked like it had been attacked by a citrus juicer. You sprayed it in, sat in the sun, and waited for magic. But chemistry had other plans, especially if you had brown hair, red hair, or anything but California blonde. Sun In turned your locks into a crunchy tangle of rust and regret. The smell alone, half lemon cleaner, half peroxide, should have been the first red flag. But hey, we were chasing sunshine in a bottle. Unfortunately, the bottle forgot to mention it only worked if you lived in Malibu.
Number four, Dr. Scholl's sandals. Chic torture devices. I think I figured it out why they call them Scholl's exercise sandals. I got them because they feel so good. You saw them in 17 magazine. You heard them clacking down the school hallway. And you begged your mom until she caved. Dr. Scholl's wooden sandals looked like a dream. Natural leather, real wood soles, and that health-conscious vibe that said, "I care about my arches." But the reality was something else. Step on the edge wrong. That pain shot straight to your spine. Ankle smack mandatory. And don't get me started on walking fast. You needed toes like a vice grip just to keep them on. Some called them orthopedic. Some called them stylish. Most of us called them an injury waiting to happen.
Number five, Prell shampoo. The green bomb that nuked your hair. You know, being natural and everything, especially my hair. So, I use liquid Prell. Prell was practically radioactive. That bright green tube squeezed out like slime, smelled like artificial freshness, and lathered up so much you could have used it to wash a station wagon. It promised bounce and shine. What it delivered was squeaky clean hair that stayed clean because your scalp gave up on producing oil. One wash with Prell and you were stripped of every trace of life. Dry ends, static for days, and the crunch of defeat. Sure, the bottle looked great in the shower caddy, but your hair needed therapy after one rinse.
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Number six, brush rollers. The torture chamber of beauty sleep. Is this the American dream? Shame on you. Before flat irons, before ceramic curlers, there were brush rollers. The medieval relics that teens voluntarily slept in. Because nothing says good morning like a face full of plastic poking through a pillow. You rolled them up tight, pinned them with those stabby metal clips, and somehow expected to wake up looking like Farrah. What you got was a scalp full of regret and curls that either did nothing or looked like you were attacked by a sheepdog. Add a bonnet to the mix and you looked like you were heading to bed on the Waltons. But hey, beauty is pain, right?
Number seven, Ayds diet candy. Appetite suppressant or suspicious treat? Oh no, what's wrong? Have I gained that much weight? My diet's not working. Use a diet aid. Yes, it was called Ayds. And yes, it was a diet candy. These little cubes of chocolate flavored something came in fancy boxes and promised to curb your appetite with a mysterious ingredient that sounded scientific. You were supposed to take one before meals with a cup of hot water and then somehow forget about dinner entirely. In practice, it tasted like stale Tootsie Rolls dipped in perfume. And if you managed to stomach one, you were rewarded with maybe a slightly smaller dinner. Or maybe you just lost your appetite from the taste. And of course, the unfortunate name didn't age well.
Number eight, shag carpets. Where fashion and filth met. Shag carpeting was the crown jewel of any 70s living room. The longer the fibers, the trendier the room. It came in every color from avocado to rust and practically begged you to walk barefoot. But as anyone who owned shag carpeting knows, it was a trap. Crumbs disappeared forever. So did jewelry, marbles, and your dignity when the vacuum clogged. Shag carpet was like living with a giant Chia Pet. It held smells, dust, and memories you never wanted. And good luck finding the remote if it fell in. You'd need a search team and a metal detector.
Number nine, QT Quick Tan. Orange. You glad you tried it? You get a quick tan with QT. A double tan. You see, it tans you. QT stood for quick tan. It should have stood for questionable tint. This lotion promised a healthy bronze glow without sun damage. What it delivered was streaky, blotchy orange palms. Oh, and the smell, like chemical pancake syrup that lingered for days. Apply too little and you looked like you missed a spot. Apply too much and you looked like you rolled in barbecue sauce. And once it was on, it was on. No amount of scrubbing got it off your knees or elbows. Self-tanners have come a long way since, but QT walked so they could run straight to the beauty aisle with gloves included.
Number 10, polyester leisure suits. The sweat lodge of style. The leisure suit had it all. Wide lapels, matching jacket and pants, and colors that said, "I am here to party in a sauna." Made of 100% polyester, these suits looked slick, but wore like a plastic bag. You'd sweat just looking at one. And if you dared to dance in one under disco lights, you were basically wearing a slow cooker. Some came in powder blue, some in burnt orange. All were shiny enough to reflect a disco ball and thick enough to block a breeze. They didn't breathe, they didn't move, and neither could you. And yet, we wore them because in the 70s, looking cool meant feeling hot. Literally.
Some of these products are still around. Some faded into history, taking their crunchy ends and orange tones with them. But each one tells a story of a time when we believed the ads, trusted the box, and thought maybe this would be the thing that transformed us. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it ended up in a garage sale by the end of the month.
What was your biggest fashion or beauty flop of the '70s? Drop it in the comments. I know you've got a good one. And hey, if this video made you laugh, cringe, or remember something you've been trying to forget since 1976, hit that subscribe button. See you next time. And remember, just because it looked good on the box doesn't mean it belonged on your head.