My Hair-Raising Journey

“Life is too short for boring hair”

“The higher the hair, the closer to God.” Or, “The higher the hair, the better the night.” I jumped onto that bandwagon in the 1980’s to get those Farrah Fawcett waves that many of us craved.

I took my long, straight youthful hair to sit in the “perm chair” where I got to choose my torture-blue rods or orange ones. The perm chair could have been more aptly called “the torture chair” but it’s where it all happened.  After my stylist tightly wrapped rod after rod of my hair, she squeezed an ammonium-smelling solution all over my scalp and then escorted from the perm chair to the dryer chair to sit where I sat flipping through magazines, brimming with hope. The stylist checked my hair after a timer went off and she said, “Oh, that’s just the right amount of curl.”  She led me back to wash, to blow dry and then singed my hair with a curling iron that often smoked.

I left looking like a poodle for at least two weeks. That, too, was part of the process. Every stylist in America said to their clients, “It’ll relax in a week or so.” And every client left their salons clinging to those words. I held onto hope it would end up more relaxed, but leaving the salon I felt cheated, convinced that my nights weren’t going to be better and the days might be worse.

The first washing two days after getting a perm, my hair looked less like a poodle’s and more like an alpaca’s-some curl but mostly frizzier fuzz. I used copious amounts of conditioner to tame it. I returned to the salon three months later and cycled through the process again. I asked God to stay close to the perm chair.

These days I’m all for minimal effort and low maintenance. The thought of all of that perm torture when I can pin up my straight hair is tiring. I do take time to pouf it for some body, though. After all, I can’t have flat hair against my head. I have some of that big hair remnant left in me.

It’s not just me. Hair is a priority or a nuisance for most women, an integral part of our personalities, and contributes to our identities for women. A “bad hair day,” is a “wash” (groan), even if it really isn’t. 

Women greet each other with:

*“Oh, I like your hair.”

*“Your new hair color looks so good.”

*“I like your new cut-very cute.”

*” My color is so grown out.” 

*“I need to do something new with my hair.”

*“My hair is driving me crazy at this length.”

*“I can’t do a thing with it.”

Women from all walks of life utter these words. Women also know to tread lightly about other women’s hair. An attack on their hair is an attack on them! Hair can be the bane of our existence, a thorn in our side! 

Yesterday I stopped in a coffee shop and a young lady with long, flowing, shiny, wavy tresses took my order. I thought of Farrah Fawcett and then pictured my permed hair and me pouring bottles of conditioner over my alpaca hair to attempt to achieve that same look.

I hated her instantly.

But I pulled myself together and told her that her hair was lovely. “Does it take a lot of time to take care of it?” No,’ she said, “I just towel dry it when I wash it most days.” 

I hated her even more.

I had an epiphany right there on the spot. I’m never getting a perm again. I’ll never achieve HER look no matter how long I sit in the perm chair, no matter how long they twist those rods, no matter how much foul-smelling solution they pour over my scalp.

She can have it-I’m letting go! I’m resigned to having straight and straighter hair day and  I’m staying on this wagon. I’m enjoying my hair freedom too much.

But don’t take away my hair spray. I still like a little of that pouf and height, especially for the nights.