Dillon Latham, a 21-year-old content creator from Virginia, recently broadcast a claim that sounds like a fever dream born of pure internet isolation. During a Kick livestream, Latham explained to his audience that he uses his own tears as a substitute for sea salt spray to style his hair. He called it crymaxxing.
The logic—if we can call it that—is that because human tears contain salt, they function as a natural texturizer. "It’s not funny. Stop. I don’t complain that much," Latham told his viewers as the chat erupted in a mix of mockery and morbid fascination. Within hours, a clip of the segment went viral, propelled by the relentless engine of social media commentary accounts. While the mainstream world looks at this as a bizarre one-off joke, the reality is far more calculated. This is not just a kid crying into his comb; it is a manifestation of a hyper-fixated male grooming subculture that has turned self-improvement into a competitive, and often desperate, sport.
The Architecture of a Viral Stunt
To understand why a streamer would claim to use biological fluids as a hair product, you have to look at the economy he inhabits. Latham isn't just a "personality." He is a business owner. He runs Simpletics, a men’s grooming brand. His entire digital footprint is dedicated to "looksmaxxing," a term that originated in fringe, often toxic, online forums but has since been sanitized for the TikTok masses.
Latham is a strategist. He has cited Logan Paul and MrBeast as his inspirations—creators who built empires on the back of the "attention at any cost" model. By introducing a concept as ridiculous as crymaxxing, Latham successfully bridges the gap between helpful grooming advice and "hate-watching" bait. Whether he actually uses his tears or not is irrelevant to the bottom line. The clip generates millions of impressions, which drives traffic to his YouTube channel, which ultimately leads to a "Shop Now" button for his legitimate sea salt sprays. It is a cynical, brilliant loop.
From Self Care to Self Obsession
The term looksmaxxing has evolved from simple skincare and gym routines into a rigid hierarchy of physical optimization. It is divided into two categories: "softmaxxing" (grooming, fitness, style) and "hardmaxxing" (plastic surgery, bone smashing, and extreme interventions).
Crymaxxing sits in a strange, ironic middle ground. It mocks the very obsession it feeds. For a generation of young men raised on high-definition front-facing cameras and dating apps that function like digital meat markets, the pressure to "ascend" is crushing.
- Mewing: Suctioning the tongue to the roof of the mouth to sharpen the jawline.
- Hunter Eyes: Obsessing over orbital bone structure and eyelid exposure.
- Canthal Tilt: The angle of the eyes, which allegedly determines one's "sexual market value."
These are not just buzzwords; they are the vocabulary of a new kind of body dysmorphia. When Latham talks about using tears for hair volume, he is speaking directly to an audience that views every part of the human body—even its grief—as a resource for aesthetic gain.
The Science of the Claim
Is there any truth to the "sea salt" comparison? Technically, yes. Human tears contain water, electrolytes (including sodium and potassium), and proteins. However, the concentration of salt in tears is significantly lower than that of the ocean or a commercial sea salt spray. Using tears as a styling agent is not only inefficient; it’s unhygienic.
Commercial sprays are formulated with preservatives and specific concentrations of magnesium sulfate or sodium chloride to provide "grip" without damaging the hair cuticle. Tears, on the other hand, contain enzymes like lysozyme and lipids. Applying them to the hair would likely result in nothing more than a sticky, slightly salty residue that serves as a breeding ground for bacteria.
The Dangerous Allure of the Expert Influencer
There is a growing friction between professional dermatologists and the "hair experts" of TikTok. Critics on platforms like Reddit have pointed out that influencers like Latham often peddle advice that borders on misinformation. Whether it’s claiming that sulfates will cause immediate balding or suggesting that brushing wet hair is a death sentence for your follicles, these creators prioritize the "shock factor" over clinical reality.
The danger isn't just in the bad advice. It's in the quantified self—the idea that a man’s worth can be measured, tracked, and "maximized" through a series of hacks. When self-improvement becomes a 24/7 engineering project, the mental toll is significant. Psychologists have noted a sharp rise in young men seeking cosmetic procedures to fix "flaws" that are often invisible to anyone not steeped in looksmaxxing lore.
The Strategy of Discomfort
Latham’s "crymaxxing" comment is a masterclass in modern digital branding. It is weird enough to be shared, "cringe" enough to be commented on, and just barely grounded in a pseudo-scientific fact to spark a debate. It turns the creator into a caricature, making him immune to traditional criticism because he can always claim he was "trolling."
But for the 1.9 million followers watching him, the line between a joke and a lifestyle is increasingly thin. They are looking for a roadmap to confidence in a world that tells them they are never quite "symmetrical" enough. If that roadmap requires them to turn their own sadness into a grooming product, many seem willing to make the trade.
The grooming industry is no longer about smelling good or looking neat. It is about the "edge." In the race to the top of the algorithmic heap, the most successful creators are those who realize that the most valuable salt on earth isn't in the sea—it’s in the engagement generated by the absurd.
Latham hasn't just found a way to style his hair. He’s found a way to monetize the very anxieties he helps create.
