First Perm

First Perm Lena McNicholas In the week before Easter, my oldest brother, Robert, was home for spring break. He attended VPI (Virginia Polytechnic Institute) and arrived home looking extremely polished, trim and full of good advice. Taking one look at me—5' 5", 120 pounds, soon to be thirteen, size 34B breasts (unencumbered breasts at that) and long, long pigtails—he conferred, I supposed, with Mother and older sister Frances. It was decided some major alterations were necessary in my appearance—at once! A trip to the local department store, The Federated, where several sizes and styles were brought home for trying on. No way would I try them on there, with everyone knowing what was going on. A Maidenform was selected. It had cone-shaped cups and starch in the linings. How in the world could I run, move or play in this contraption? I would have to try, because no one would take pity on me. Next—the hair. What to do with that? My sister had naturally curly hair, so when she washed, pincurled and brushed, it would cascade to her shoulders in shiny waves. My hair was a flat-out mess. Thick and straight, straight, straight, it had a mind of its own. Pins would jump out. Clasps were constantly askew. Ribbons—forget it! The newest item in hair care was home perms. Toni was the number one choice, but for some reason we chose Richard Hudnut. It was decided that Frances and her friend Betty Christopher would give me the works Saturday afternoon before Easter Sunday. I sat on the front porch while Frances unceremoniously cut my foot-long pigtails one by one. I felt very exposed, but since my hair was still touching my shoulders, I thought maybe it wouldn'tbe so bad. We then to the kitchen for washing, reading instructions, laying out equipment—rollers, combs, bowls, towels, snacks, etc. Once the solution was opened, my whole head opened with it. What a foul, rotten smell. My sinuses aflame, eyes running and stomach sending signs of rebellion, they began the hours long process of beautifying Lena's hair, Betty was on one side and Frances on the other. I think they evenly divided it. The processing time was probably an hour, but they gave it an additional thirty minutes or so to be sure it took. By now my scalp was stinging with little chemical burns. 20 When the moment of truth finally arrived and the rollers were pulled, yanked and unrolled, my hair had taken so well that it ballooned to the size of a bushel basket in a matter of minutes. My hair was good and frizzed. It was also discovered, on trying to comb it, that one side had been rolled under and the other side rolled upward. So there was this schizoid-unbalanced look—one side flying up, the other frizzing down. This was pre-Afro, pre-softly tangled curls, pre-conditioners, mousses, gels and other such helpful aids for managing this mess. The thought of cutting and wasting all that time and money was unheard of. So the perm stayed. Did I say the odor of the solution would linger for weeks? And a fresh "do" was absolutely overwhelming. The rest of the evening is still a blur. I think I threw up a couple of times—prayed I would wake up with my old hair back—slept alone. Frances couldn't stand the smell, so she slept on the couch. I woke up to an even larger mass of hair. It had doubled again overnight. Everyone avoided me as church time approached. I wore a new dress Mother had made, and it was stretched across the new chest size. My hair was slicked down with Dad's hair oil. Not exactly slicked down, but oiled enough in front to keep it out of my eyes. Going to Sunday School was agony—"What happened to you?" "Phew, what's that smell?" "Who's in there? Lena the Hyena?" "Here comes Frankenstein's bride!" As I was scheduled to sing with the choir and a solo as well, I knew I had to get some control. So I promised...