Hairspray is for Hiking

I am hardly out of shape, yet I cannot seem to hike Runyon Canyon in West Hollywood without curling over and feeling like I'm going to cough my lungs out my face. Why? Do all those hours clocked at the gym mean nothing?

As I'm asphyxiating two women jog by with the combined body fat of a single stick insect and perfect blow-outs. My addled respiratory system is temporarily set adrift from its desire for analgesics and mystified by their hair. Was there a stylist van at the foot of the trail I missed? Does the Botox in their foreheads mean no sweat will mar their enviable coifs? Are they actually lungless hiking puppets, sent by the city to fill yet another place to call "on location"?

In the great outdoors, filled with all that fine smoggy air, perhaps their helmet-y layers provide protection against the elements. Maybe the spray and lacquer that surrounds them acts like a buffer, makes purer molecules to breathe than what surrounds us on the climb. I imagine myself dressed as an apeable doll, my movable limbs film-worthy as in an up-do I arrive at the best place to view the Hollywood sign, take a deep breath, and await my close-up. If only that van did touch-ups at the top.