While the world cracks like an old mirror at the Palace, while wars chew through entire cities, and the ultra-rich compress the air like a luxury product, a new planetary emergency emerges: Cardi B’s repaired hair. Yes, hair. Not children, not bombs, not famines. The hair of the most distinguished of singers.

Enter Grow-Good Beauty, a name that sounds like a probiotic yogurt for exhausted billionaires. A brand born from a collaboration with Revolve Group, that Californian consortium that sells “lifestyle” the way others sell freedom-scent in a plastic bottle. They call it a “multi-category offering.” We call it a buffet for obese vanities who think the height of sophistication is the phone book.

While glaciers melt, we celebrate the capillary rebirth of a fluorescent wig. While drones stitch surgical seams across Ukrainian villages, we applaud a tour called Little Miss Drama .

The drama, though, is not in the mascara. The drama is in this very small, very closed circle of celebrities, spinning like perfumed hamsters in a gilded cage. They live outside our world, in an air-conditioned bubble where the air is filtered “Le Bel Aire,” problems are sponsored, morality is Photoshopped, and blindness is considered a point of view.

They sell vodka-whipped creams while others whip the soil just to survive. They talk about “healthy hair” while rivers turn toxic. They celebrate collaborations with Balenciaga while the planet collaborates with extinction. And we, hypnotized spectators, watch this liturgy of frivolity the way one watches a fire, wondering if the smoke is a new trend.

These people are not icons. They are glamorous parasites, hanging from our attention like rhinestone leeches, sucking the last gram of cultural oxygen while the house burns. But rest assured: their hair is repaired. The planet can die, as long as the shine is guaranteed.

FM