From the moment I could remember, I was stuck with fine, straight black hair. I couldn’t help but envy my friends with those luscious curls. It was like a scene straight out of a beloved childhood book—think of how Ramona Quimby idolized Susan, the curly-haired girl seated in front of her at school. I had my own curly-haired best friend, Emily, and you can bet I was always pulling her curls just to see them “boing!” It was our little game, and thankfully, I never got in trouble for it. Little did I know, Emily would later confess she secretly wished for my sleek, straight hair.
In the vibrant world of the ’80s, it seemed like everyone was rocking curly hair. Celebrities flaunted voluminous locks that defied gravity—Madonna’s teased perm and Sarah Jessica Parker’s iconic corkscrew curls were the stuff of dreams. Even many male stars jumped on the bandwagon, with Jon Bon Jovi’s infamous perm being a notable example. After what felt like an eternity of pleading, I finally convinced my mom to take me for a perm at the tender age of 11. Honestly, I’m surprised she caved—I know I wouldn’t let my own kid get a perm at that age!
We headed to a salon in the mall, where I remember the tightness of the rollers pulling at my scalp. Sitting under that dome dryer felt exhilarating, but the overwhelming stench of the chemicals was something I’d never forget—it was like rotten eggs. The stylist warned me not to wash my hair for a few days, and I held my breath to avoid the lingering odor. But when I finally got to touch my hair, I was ecstatic. My dreams had come true; I had gorgeous corkscrew curls.
However, my happiness was short-lived. The moment I washed my hair, those once-perfect curls vanished, leaving me with a frizzy mess that looked like I’d just walked through a thunderstorm. You’d think I’d received some guidance on how to care for my new perm, but whether it was a lack of instructions or my own ignorance, I was left to fend for myself. My mom’s sage advice? “Just throw it in a ponytail.”
For months, I endured the wild, unruly mane that came with my perm, blending in with every other ’80s girl sporting frizzy, oversized hair. It was quite the lesson learned, and perhaps that was my mother’s plan all along. As my hair gradually grew back to its natural state, I began to appreciate my straight, manageable locks. Turns out, the grass isn’t always greener—or curlier—on the other side.
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Summary:
Reflecting on my childhood desire for curly hair and the subsequent perm disaster, I learned a valuable lesson about self-acceptance. The ’80s may have been the era of big hair, but my straight locks were a blessing in disguise.
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