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On a Friday afternoon all I wanted was a little pick-me-up, maybe even a hint of glamour. I eyed my Dyson Airwrap blow dryer thinking how good it would feel to have a salon-styled blow out again. The shine, the volume, the bounce made me pull it out of its forced retirement. But as soon as I held it in my hands, a familiar pang of guilt hit me. This marvel of modern technology and giver of great hair was an energy guzzler of proportions that a climate worrier like me simply couldn’t deny. Did I really need to use all that power for a few hours of luscious locks?
The guilt was tied to a deeper dilemma about authenticity in climate activism. I’d spent years researching environmental laws and carbon pricing so living through a summer of self-imposed austerity to reduce my footprint was a natural choice. I’d embraced thrift stores, rummaging through racks like an eco-archaeologist on the hunt for bygone treasures that I could be proud about. Meat? I’d quit cold turkey, a fact that I would casually work into conversations with figures about industrial agriculture smoothly rolling off my tongue. Inspired by a best-selling climate author, I had decided to cancel flights and put our leased fossil fuel vehicle on the market, pledging to walk whenever possible or simply, stay at home.
It was no surprise that this changed me, but not entirely in the ways that I expected. I emulated Gandhian austerity, but this self-denial made me … prickly. The sacrifices were stacking up, and suddenly, it was hard not to resent everyone around me whose small indulgences collectively poisoned our planet, yet they seemed to go about their day and lives without so much as fretting over their carbon footprint. The testy ones would sometimes ask if I grew my own food and I’d shudder at the state of my tiny windy high-rise balcony where the results of my urban subsistence farming still sat: and was now home to carcasses of still born peppers and tomatoes the size of cranberries. God forbid anyone should see me at Starbucks on the day I forgot my reusable cup; I’d carry that humiliation as a calling card for my hypocrisy. I was like a person cosplaying as a climate martyr, tiptoeing through a minefield of judgment – most of it, admittedly, coming from myself.
My friends would say I was paralyzing myself with perfectionism, but it felt like the perfectionism was non-negotiable. If I couldn’t avoid every carbon-intensive convenience, what right did I have to advocate for the planet? I was holding myself to standards I could barely meet without succumbing to existential angst, but I was expecting the same from everyone else – from politicians, international bodies and Joe, my neighbour who proudly advertised his I-heart-oil-and-gas sticker beside his wild rose county licence plate. It wasn’t long before I’d started to lose the joy of not just being part of this movement I cared so much about, but also the joy of living.
As I eyed my Airwrap, I found myself to be a microcosm of the complex considerations that plague the problem I had been studying intensely. My desire for an evening of a vanity-fuelled bouncy blowout was a sinister exposition of my academic rigidity that preached a principled conscientiousness about anything and everything. The Kantian categorical imperative was my north star if I was to be a “real” climate advocate. When did “caring” turn into such rigid self-denial to prove my authenticity?
The longer I intellectualized my desire to commit an eco-sin, the more I realized that my perfectionism wasn’t helping anyone. Me giving up everything that gave me joy, silly as it may be, was making me depressed, resentful and unproductive. It’s not that I didn’t want to live sustainably – I did. But I was holding myself to standards that were unsustainable. If I kept stripping my life of every tiny pleasure in the name of “the cause,” then my own journey toward climate action would become a punishment rather than a privilege.
So, I took a deep breath and plugged in my Airwrap. And you know what? I enjoyed every second of it. The whoosh of the air, the satisfying curl – pure bliss. Yes, it used energy, and yes, I could have left my hair natural, but for once, I let it go. I allowed myself to be a little indulgent without judgment, and it was exactly what I needed. The guilt still lingers, but I’m learning to embrace a softer approach to this journey. The planet doesn’t need us to be martyrs, I realized, but it could use some resilient, optimistic advocates who don’t burn out or become resentful along the way. I still walk, I still eat lentils and I still cherish my thrift-store finds, but I’m giving myself space to be human. And maybe, in a small way, I’m living proof that we can care deeply about something without letting it harden us because as it turns out, I don’t need to be a perfect climate advocate, just a committed one, with really good hair.
Avleen Kohli lives in Vancouver.
