As many of you remember, 48 Home Ave. threw a Phase-1 party this past Saturday evening, and, defying the busy social schedule that night, managed to draw an exceedingly large crowd. I know this phenomenon was not due to the fact that I live there, since most of you who came didn’t bother to talk to me, but was instead due to the event’s proximity in time to the housing lottery. Party-goers were united with house-hunters, each with her or his own definition of WesPragmatism. And I have no problem with this. Yes, I wanted a more intimate gathering, like a cast party, but I have to admit I was excited by the turnout, and I know that living in a perennial #1 housing choice comes with its responsibilities. I didn’t even mind the mess I was left with the next morning–the muddy floors, littered yard, and clumps of birthday cake caked into the corners. The grievance I have is with a pragmatism of a more vicious nature. Namely, the theft of my hair gel.

48 Home, as many of you know, has two full-service bathrooms, complete with toilets, sinks, and showers that have fabulously high water pressure. Since I occupy the only room on the ground floor, the downstairs bathroom has become "my" bathroom. My housemates do use it from time to time to check their faces or take a quick pee, but I would estimate that 91% of its activity is due to me, and me only. Thus, I consider it "mine." And in "my" bathroom, I feel entitled to store my toiletries in the mirrored cabinet above the sink. And since toiletries are not exactly a hot commodity, I haven’t felt the need to move them or put a lock on the cabinet door when we throw a party, even though I know that plenty of strange people will be shuffling in and out; "my" bathroom is more accessible, after all, than the one upstairs. Plus, as I said before, I see Wesleyan as safe haven.

Early on during the night, however, someone clogged my toilet beyond the repair abilities of liberal arts students, and subsequently, my housemates and I put an "out of order" sign on the door, theoretically closing it off to the house-touring public. In retrospect, perhaps we were a bit naïve in thinking this heart-felt warning would keep you people at bay. To be fair, I did witness some courteous folks read the sign and take their business outside, but, as I discovered the next morning, some people had other motivations than their bodily functions. Someone wanted my American Crew pomade.

The facts of the case lead me to believe that this theft was pre-meditated. As stated, the bathroom was obviously unusable; even the people who ignored the sign and ventured in found that out (There was, indeed, no further clogging). And the hair gel was not in view. To find it, one had to open the right side of the cabinet and filter through items that are seemingly much more valuable, especially a half-full bottle of Codeine, leftover from when I broke my pinky finger. The fact that the hair gel was taken but the hard drugs were left behind rules out a simple case of revenge. The assailant had one thing on his mind, and I use the pronoun "his" for a reason.

American Crew is a men’s-only line of hair products, tailored to the sort of man who wants a salon-quality product at a more reasonable price. The particular appeal of the pomade is that it provides the hair a healthy degree of hold and malleability without leaving behind a solid crust that screams 1991. It gives a man a "wet" look, a kind of "planned chaos" which fits perfectly into classic Wesleyan fashion ideals: look good, but appear as if you didn’t mean to. So why doesn’t every guy own this stuff, right? Well, fortunately and unfortunately alike, its not available in Middletown, at least not in large quantities. You see, the pomade comes in two different containers. One, a tiny, 2 ounce tube; the other, a much larger cylinder. The tubes, which you can find from time to time at CVS, are not as desirable due to their extremely small size and the way in which their compression changes the consistency of the gel. In the cylinder, which has a solid plastic construction, the gel is allowed to breathe, and thus stays softer and creamier. Also, the screw-off top allows one to use a healthier portion, and since the container is so large, one doesn’t feel the guilty pangs of extravagance. It’s like a different product really, a product that is tough to come by in the Connecticut Valley.

And so if someone were to catch word of a brand-new cylinder arriving on campus after break, or if he had been admiring my hair from afar, wondering what kind of wonder-product could produce such delicate ruggedness, I can understand how he may be tempted to do something drastic about it, like violating another man’s vanity cabinet while simultaneously drinking his beer. But it’s the premeditation that bothers me. To think he took time after his school work and extracurricular activities to sit down and plan a crime he knew to be heinous is what both infuriates me, and what frightens me. Will he be back? Should I be sleeping in the shower with a flashlight and a mace key-chain? And what if he doesn’t stop at hair gel? What if he wants my cologne (the name of which is confidential) or my collection of "cute and funny" boxers? I now shudder thinking of the world around me: Public Safety’s response time is down, Senior Week is fast approaching, and there is a man out there who is more desperately vain than P. Scott Cunningham.