. On the Art of Not Meaning Anything .
Recently at the shop, I picked up a shampoo bottle that boldly claimed, “instant transformation.” I turned the bottle over, looking for even a slight hint of what this transformation might involve. Would it change my hair? Improve my mood? Or realign me with some metaphysical universal grid?
Nothing.
Just illustrations of some botanicals that probably had never met the inside of this bottle and a carnival of airy verbs: “renew,” “revitalise,” “restore.” It felt less like a hair-care product and more like a romantic poet who had recently discovered aromatherapy.
I realised I was staring at the bottle longer than any reasonable person would for an ordinary item. The word “transformation” hung there effortlessly, crafted to sound meaningful without being too specific.
Somewhere between the conditioners and the deep-conditioning masks (I don’t know the difference), I realised the shampoo hadn’t told me anything. It had simply invited me to imagine whatever I needed it to mean: a semantic oracle in a plastic bottle.
I was there decoding shampoo marketing.
The Great Linguistic Jailbreak of 1995 (Starring Poerksen)
Probably somewhere around the fifteenth bottle I opened and sniffed, words, promises, fragrances … everything started blurring together.
And then Uwe Poerksen appeared. His hair was impressively full for his age, and the supermarket lights flickered like an old German seminar room. He leaned in and whispered, “plastic words”
Right. Those words.
Poerksen describes the term 'plastic word' as vocabulary that initially had a precise, technical meaning but has become vague, adaptable, and soft over time due to overuse and misuse. It begins with a scientific origin, then shifts to bureaucratic language, and ultimately is used broadly everywhere.
Plastic words are like your overused yoga pants. You know the type: once firm, structured, and designed for proper exercise, but now just a stretched-out piece of fabric that fits any situation, from grocery shopping to pretty much everywhere. They’ve completely lost their shape, yet you keep wearing them because they’re comfortable, familiar, and require absolutely no thought.
Plastic words behave in the same way. They begin with precision, then are dragged into every context until they cling to meaning merely out of habit. Soft, flexible, universally applicable, yet providing no real support.
These words are clever enough to silence doubts, optimistic enough to spark hope, and vague enough to mean whatever the listener’s inner child wants them to mean. They’re as smooth as a pebble polished by centuries of waves: pleasing to hold, impossible to grasp.
“Transformation” was doing exactly that. It wasn’t lying. It wasn’t telling the truth. It was simply… there.
Poerksen warned that once these words enter public discourse, they become unclear and serve as mirrors. We no longer read them; we project onto them.
Becoming the Emotional Support Human for a Word
Standing there with the bottle, I realised I was doing all the work. I was the one providing meaning and emotional labour while the word “transformation” just lounged there, flexible and unbothered.
Perhaps it meant appearing less like someone who had spent the night negotiating with their own mind. Perhaps it meant shinier hair. Perhaps it meant a new personality. Or maybe it was simply a refined way of saying, “foam will occur.”
The issue wasn’t the promise; it was the complete lack of a reference point. No explanation. No intended outcome. Not even a helpful diagram. Without a standard, “transformation” could mean anything from a tiny improvement to a massive makeover. And without knowing which it was, the product remained as open to interpretation as contemporary art.
This is the behaviour of plastic words: the word keeps all its elasticity, and we supply all the sense.
When Vocabulary Goes Out for Milk and Never Comes Back
The world is crowded with plastic words.
Innovation. Sustainability. Empowerment. Progress. Development. Resilience. Wellness. Growth. Impact.
They create the language used in mission statements, political speeches, climate policies, corporate retreats, self-help books, dating apps, and marketing campaigns. They are all around, floating through sentences.
They aim for clarity but deliver only atmosphere.
They suggest a path but do not specify a destination.
They feel meaningful without meaning.
A shampoo bottle, a government plan, and a multinational tech company's keynote speech may all seem surprisingly alike. They share a gentle glow of ambition and lack specific details.
The Moment Language Decides to Be Vibes-Only
Poerksen wasn’t worried because the words were vague. He was concerned because vague words become default words, and default words shape thought. It’s how the whole language slowly turns into a wellness retreat brochure.
When plastic words flood our language, they gradually diminish our capacity to think clearly. When I am overwhelmed by too many plastic words in a day, I feel as if my brain has been smeared with Vaseline. Everything becomes blurred, and I start to forget the questions that connect us to the real.
Transform what?
Develop how?
Progress toward which outcome?
Empower whom?
Improve which part, and for whom?
Plastic words offer the comfort of movement but lack a clear purpose. They give the illusion of agreement without real clarity, like nodding through a meeting even when you have no idea what “synergistic leveraging of holistic frameworks” means.
The threat isn't manipulation; it’s mental fog obscuring your ability to think.
My Wallet Transformed; My Hair Did Not
Yet, of course, I bought the shampoo. Who doesn’t want instant transformation, even if it’s semantically inaccessible? My transformation turned out to be quite ordinary: I washed my hair. It became clean. That was all. No spiritual realignment. Just hygiene.
However, I left the store with a strange feeling. It wasn't scepticism, but a sense of clarity about how language can sometimes drift from its roots and flow freely, unbound yet still convincing. Meaning, it turns out, doesn’t come from the word. It comes from the questions we ask afterwards.
So if you encounter a plastic word, whether on a billboard, in a meeting, or printed on something that belongs in your shower, take a moment to tilt your head and ask the simplest, sharpest question:
What does this word actually point to?
Even a tiny question like that can slice through the fog.
And honestly? If I truly want a hair transformation, I can always ask the cat. She has achieved fluffy, shiny volume using nothing but saliva, spite, and unreasonable self-confidence. She wouldn't answer, of course. But hope, like a housecat, persists even when completely unjustified.
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