From the moment I could appreciate hair, I was stuck with thin, straight black locks that felt like a curse in the ’80s. I often found myself envious of the girls with those glorious, bouncy curls. Do you remember the character Ramona Quimby and her obsession with Susan, that curly-haired girl in front of her? Well, my grade school best friend had the most stunning curly blonde hair, and I was totally obsessed. Luckily, we were close enough that I could tug at her curls to hear that delightful “boing!” sound without a second thought. Little did I know, she secretly wished for my straight, silky hair, which made for a funny irony.
In a decade where big hair ruled supreme and every celebrity flaunted voluminous curls, it was difficult not to desire that look. I remember idolizing Madonna’s teased perm and Sarah Jessica Parker’s iconic corkscrew curls. Even the rock stars of the time, like Jon Bon Jovi, sported perms that were more cringe-worthy than cool.
After a relentless campaign of pleading, I finally convinced my mother to let me get a perm at the tender age of 11. I can’t fathom why she agreed—there’s no way I would allow my own daughter to make such a decision. But it was the ’80s, and everyone was doing it! My argument was that she had enjoyed a few perms in her day, so why should I be left out?
Off we went to the mall salon, where I vividly remember the sensation of my hair being painfully tugged into rollers. Sitting under one of those dome dryers felt like a rite of passage, despite the overwhelming stench of chemicals reminiscent of rotten eggs.
Post-perm, I was advised not to wash my hair for a few days. The smell was so potent, I found myself holding my breath constantly. But oh, the curls! I could finally run my fingers through my hair and “boing” it to my heart’s content. I had achieved the look I longed for—delightful corkscrew ringlets.
But, as fate would have it, the joy was fleeting. The moment I washed my hair, my dreams crumbled. Those perfect curls vanished, leaving me with what can only be described as a frizzy, chaotic mess. I looked like I had just survived an electrical storm.
One would assume I received instructions on maintaining my perm, but alas, I left the salon with little guidance. Perhaps there was a mousse or gel I should have used? My mother’s advice was simply, “Just tie it up in a ponytail.”
For the next six months, I endured the absurdity of giant, frizzy hair. It seemed every girl around me was in the same boat—our collective hairstyles were a testament to the era’s obsession with volume. However, this experience taught me a valuable lesson: as soon as my natural hair began to grow back, I learned to appreciate my straight locks like never before. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side—sometimes, it’s just curlier.
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Summary:
In this nostalgic tale, Lisa Harper recounts her childhood desire for curly hair during the ’80s, leading to a disastrous perm experience. The excitement quickly turned into disappointment, teaching her a valuable lesson about appreciating her natural straight hair.
Keyphrase: ’80s hair perm disaster
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