Born with naturally fine, straight black hair, I always found myself envious of girls with luscious curls. My desire for bouncy, tight ringlets mirrored the obsession that Ramona Quimby had for her curly classmate Susan, who would pull her hair just to hear it spring back. My closest friend in elementary school boasted gorgeous, curly blonde locks, and I relished the opportunity to play with her hair without any repercussions. Little did I know, she secretly longed for my smooth, straight hair—a classic case of hair envy.
In the vibrant ’80s, curly hair was undeniably in vogue. It seemed as though every celebrity sported extravagant, voluminous locks. Reflecting on it now, some of those hairstyles were downright outrageous, yet I was captivated by Madonna’s teased perm and Sarah Jessica Parker’s iconic corkscrew curls. Even the rock stars of that era, like Jon Bon Jovi, flaunted their own versions of perms.
After what felt like years of pleading, I finally convinced my mother to let me get a perm at the tender age of 11. Looking back, I’m unsure why she agreed; I certainly wouldn’t allow my own child to get one at such a young age. Yet, in the spirit of the ’80s, where perms were all the rage, I argued that she had enjoyed a few perms in her time and that it was unfair for me to be left out.
We headed to a local beauty salon, and I vividly recall the sensation of my hair being tightly wound around rollers. Sitting beneath the iconic salon dome was a thrill, but the overwhelming stench of the chemicals—akin to rotten eggs—was unforgettable. I was instructed not to wash my hair for a few days, and the lingering odor made me hold my breath frequently. But the end result? Stunning. I could finally run my fingers through my new, perfect corkscrew curls.
However, that perfection was short-lived. The moment I washed my hair, the well-formed curls vanished. Within days, I found myself resembling a girl who had just survived an electrical shock—my hair was a frizzy, shapeless mess. I can’t recall receiving any maintenance instructions for my new style. Perhaps I left the salon with some recommended products, but I certainly didn’t know how to use them. My mother’s advice was simply, “Just tie it in a ponytail.”
Consequently, I endured six months of enormous, unruly hair until it finally began to grow out. I blended right in with my fellow ’80s girls, all of us sporting the same puffy-haired look. Yet, I learned a valuable lesson—possibly my mother’s intention all along. As my straight hair began to return, I gained a newfound appreciation for its simplicity and ease. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side—or should I say, curlier.
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In summary, my quest for coveted curls led to a memorable lesson in self-acceptance and appreciation for my natural hair. The allure of the ’80s perm ultimately taught me that what we often desire may not be what’s best for us.