From an early age, I was the proud owner of thin, straight black hair. I often found myself envious of my peers with luscious curls, longing for the tight, bouncy ringlets that seemed to be all the rage. Much like the fictional character Ramona Quimby, who admired her classmate Susan’s curly locks and would tug at them to see them spring back, I had my own curly-haired obsession. My best friend, Lily, flaunted beautiful, golden curls, and I relished the chance to play with her hair without facing any reproach. Ironically, I would later discover that she yearned for my sleek, straight hair and would have swapped in an instant.
In the vibrant culture of the ’80s, curly hair was undeniably in vogue. Celebrities paraded around with voluminous, extravagant hairstyles—Madonna’s teased perm and Sarah Jessica Parker’s iconic corkscrew curls were particularly sought after. Even the male heartthrobs of the time, like Jon Bon Jovi, sported similarly styled perms, contributing to the era’s hair madness. After what felt like endless pleading, I finally convinced my mother to let me get a perm when I was 11 years old. At the time, I was relentless in my pursuit, and she must have thought it was worth a shot, despite my future self questioning the wisdom of such a decision.
Our visit to the local mall salon is still vivid in my memory. I can still feel the tightness of the rollers as they twisted my hair into place. Sitting beneath the warm dome of the salon’s dryer felt like a treat, but the overwhelming stench of the chemical solution that smelled like rotten eggs was unforgettable. After my appointment, I was advised to refrain from washing my hair for a few days. The lingering odor was so strong that I often found myself holding my breath.
Initially, my hair looked fantastic; I could run my fingers through my glorious curls and enjoy the “boing” factor to my heart’s content. But that joy was fleeting. The moment I washed my hair, the well-defined curls vanished, and a few days later, I bore a striking resemblance to someone who had just survived an electrical storm—frizzy and shapeless.
You might imagine that I would have received guidance on how to maintain my new perm. Perhaps we left the salon with recommended products like mousse or gel, but either I was unaware of their use, or my mother simply suggested, “Just put it up in a ponytail.” Consequently, I was left to contend with my enormous hair for about six months, blending in with the other ’80s girls who embraced similar hair disasters.
Ultimately, this experience taught me a valuable lesson—perhaps that was my mother’s intention all along. As my natural hair began to re-emerge, I developed a newfound appreciation for my straight, manageable locks. It turns out that sometimes the grass isn’t greener on the other side—or, in this case, curlier.
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In summary, my ’80s perm adventure was a rollercoaster of excitement followed by disappointment, ultimately leading me to appreciate the simplicity of my natural hair.
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