Not too long ago a friend of mine opened a beauty spa, Salon Euphoria. (http://www.facebook.com/saloneuphoria.net) Now let me reassure you that this is not an ad – though you might want to check out the site – but merely an opening for a story. The owner, Kim Perme, and the staff decided to host a contest. The person writing in with the funniest hair tragedy would win a hair product from Oribe. So I gave them one of mine. Yes, I have many hair tragedies, but this is the one I decided to tell:
Hair care has come a long way since I was a kid. Before I was born, getting a perm meant this:
However, by the time I came forth from my mother’s womb, you could do it yourself at home with this:
BUT the result was usually this:
Then, we sprayed it with this – in case America came under a nuclear attack (which Americans were obsessed with at the time). It created an impenetrable helmet.
When I was in grade school our class was going to sing for the PTA. I’m not sure what grade I was in. Fifth? Sixth? I don’t know. I have probably repressed most of the story. Anyway, I was old enough to be conscious of my appearance, but, according to my mom, not old enough to make my own grooming decisions. So, on the night before we were to sing, she decided I needed a perm.
Full of grooming zeal, she bought a box of Toni at Colliers Drug Store and pulled out her shoebox of curlers. These curlers were small. How small? Think pencil. Then she proceeded to roll my hair into knots so tight I looked like Jackie Chan.
Two bottles of toxic solution and five burn hickeys on my neck later, the perm was finished. It was 30 minutes past my bedtime, so I was ordered straight to bed with a wet head . . . because, yes, blow-dryers weren’t even invented yet. And somehow, during the night, Bozo entered my bedroom and traded heads with me.
To say that I was disturbed when I got up and looked in the mirror is an understatement. But being the good (i.e. anal) child that I was, I held still while my mother styled it . . . My mother who decided that giving me pigtails would be a good idea. Pigtails? Who am I kidding. They were basketballs attached by rubber bands.
It was quite the fashion statement.
It said, “Please kill me.”
Then she sprayed it until it became hard and shiny. Like wet Christmas candy.
Satisfied with her handiwork, she declared me ready to sing onstage.
Unfortunately, there was going to be a six hour gap between the time I left the house, and the time we were due to perform. So she threatened me with fates worse than death if I disarranged the spectacle of my head in any way. I was to keep well away from any low lying branches, kindergartners on the bus, and coat hooks behind the blackboard. I could understand that, since she spent 4 hours and 75 cents on my hair. So I did as I was told.
All I remember from that afternoon of being onstage is that one of our choral members behind me got too hot on the back row, passed out, and fell off the bleachers. At least that was the story that he told. Personally, I think he fainted from the Aqua-Net fumes.
The irony of this whole story? I was 28 when I found out that I already had naturally curly hair. . . and HAD had curly hair all my life. It took a hairdresser with a diffuser attachment to show me the obvious. And my mom? She still doesn’t believe that I have curly hair, even when I’m standing in front of her.
Do you have any of your own hair stories you want to share? It doesn’t have to be from childhood. Just leave out the name of the hairdresser so we don’t get sued. . .
Remember, to leave a comment click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the latest Photo-blog on the right. Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.