Feeling that this color riot was too good to be true, I asked the woman behind the counter whether the tints were natural or not. She admitted that they were synthetic, but added that it was in response to consumer demands: people tend to be put off by the unevenly colored, unstylish look of the products in their natural state.
Of course, some purists may feel that something isn't truly organic unless it looks like pond sludge. Never fear. The Body Shop also carries rough-hewn products like Henna Cream Shampoo, which looks like a jar of copper-colored vaseline mixed with mud, because it contains no artificial colors or color stabilizers. The "Men's Rhassoul Mud Soap" resembles a small cement brick. For women, there's "Wheatscrub Soap", made of wheatgerm and cinnamon, which is supposed to "exfoliate" your skin, and a milk bath that contains oats and avocado oil. Apparently the Body Shop doesn't know the inside of the body from the outside.
One of the strangest products I encountered there was this lotion that came in a tube and is supposed to make you look tan without having to expose yourself to nasty ultraviolet rays. Is smearing chemicals on your skin any healthier?
Less Eco-Glamour
At first sight, Origins is a relieving break from the Body Shop's eco-glamour tone. A soothing ambience is created by the play of the light off the unfinished wooden cabinets, bundles of straw and an abundance of wicker baskets. Gentle hoots and splashes emanate from the sound system playing the whalesongs CD. The pamphlets and the wrappings on the products are made of nubbly beige recycled paper.
Some of this wholesomeness is authentic. Unlike the Body Shop, Origins uses no animal products or artificial colors in their soaps, cosmetics and perfumes. The towels and bathrobes they sell are 100 percent cotton or linen, and are unbleached.
However, many of the products that most contribute to the store's woodsy look are either overpriced, superfluous or of dubious ecological soundness.
Fifteen dollars is a lot to pay for a wooden comb which isn't significantly different from a drugstore plastic one. Crayons or pencil leads stuck in inch-thick twigs (complete with bark) are unwieldy and rough to the touch, and contribute (as do the combs) to deforestation through the unnecessary and wasteful use of wood. Besides, at $3.50 a crayon, it would take a month's wages to amass a 64-color set.
Most perplexing of all was the terra-cotta bath scrubber, a $5 cookie-shaped object with the texture of a cheese grater. Its purpose is to scrub off skin flakes. This object seemed to symbolize the Origins mentality: "Look at me! I'm mortifying my flesh even though I'm also indulging in expensive toiletries!" Maybe the bath scrubber would make a good gift for your favorite ascetic, but a real cheese grater would work just as well--and be more useful around the house, too!
Spirits in the Material World
Origins wants to make it very clear how much they value the spiritual over the material. Thus, while the Body Shop's perfumes are named after fruits, those in Origins are dubbed "Spirits of the Night," "Spirits of the Gardens," "Spirits of the Sun" and "Spirits of the Forest," tastefully arranged in four big alchemist's bottles filled with leafy herbal stuff. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any testers, so I was unable to commune with the spirits.
Origins's New Age mystical dreaminess reaches its peak with the "Peace of Mind" demonstration, which tries to convince customers that hand lotion is a soul-uplifting ritual substance.
"First put the lotion on your fingertips," the shop assistant murmurs. "Now rub it behind your neck. Now on your temples. Close your eyes and put your hands over your nose. Breathe deeply. How do you feel?"
Maybe it's too close to my next exam for peppermint hand lotion to give me peace of mind--but it did clear my sinuses.
In both of the stores I visited, there were a few genuinely useful and wholesome products buried beneath the trendy paraphernalia, but the appearance of ecological consciousness was more often a gimmick to flatter people's consciences while they indulged in overpriced inanities.
Both stores were nevertheless packed with customers who were apparently indifferent to the insubstantial hype. Maybe what we all want nowadays is a sanitized, decorative, larger-than-life reality substitute rather than the real thing.
That being the case, I think I'll go into business this summer. Look for me in Harvard Square, selling 100 percent organic bottled dishwater and soaps made of leftover Cream of Wheat. Given the gullibility of Cambridge yuppies, I'll probably make enough to pay off my student loans.