Home Perms Run Amuk

Five kidsI have enjoyed blogging so much this past year and a half.  I have met so many friends and enjoyed incredible writing.  Following Bunkarydo’s example, I am reposting my first post. Pictured above:  upper left Linda Swain Bethea holding Connie Swain Miller’s hands, Billy Swain, Phyllis Swain Barrington holding Marilyn Swain Grisham.

To curly-haired people Mother might have seemed mild-mannered enough, but beneath her calm exterior she nursed a sadistic streak, committing home permanents with malice aforethought, ignoring her helpless daughters’ protests that “I like my hair this way.” and “nobody but old ladies have THAT kind of hair.” squashing arguments with a terrifying directive, “Don’t dispute my word.” “Disputing my word” assured swift and terrible punishment, followed by a furious lecture about how great we had it and ending tearfully with, “and I would have given anything to have a permanent wave like Margaret Lucille, but I had to wear my hair chopped off straight around.” Had I met Margaret Lucille, the author of my misery, I would have gladly pulled out every permanently-waved hair on her despicable head. I hated her than Mother.

Around July 4th every summer, Mother would casually start to dangle the threat that she had to give us a permanent before school started. We’d protest vainly against her response that “She wasn’t going to look at that long, stringy hair all year.” A procrastinator, Mother didn’t get to the evil deed right away. Just before Labor Day, when the humiliation of last year’s perm had grown out enough to be approaching normalcy, Mother would stretch her budget to include a home permanent for each of us. I would have been grateful for cyanide when she dragged out those hateful pink and white “Lilt” boxes. After a long night of dreading the inevitable, Mother got us up early to clean the house so she could start the long perming process. I dragged over to borrow the pink curlers from Miss Joyce, the next door neighbor, hoping to be hit by a truck. When I got back home, defeated, I surrendered to my frizzy fate. Mother seated me on a kitchen chair and cut my hair, using her time-honored secret for a perfect hairdo. She methodically divided my luscious locks (my description, not hers)into sections, started at the bottom, and held up about fifty hairs at a time, measured them against a mark she’d made on a rat-tail comb, and cut. My mood became increasingly glum as she measured and cut, measured and cut.

After an interminable period, I was ready for the next step. Mother opened the home permanent kit and mixed the deadly chemicals, assaulting the senses with the sulfurous scent of rotten eggs and a healthy touch of essence of pee. Dividing what remained of my hair into tiny sections, wetting it with putrid permanent solution, she wrapped it in papers, and wound it as tight as possible on the hard pink plastic curlers. If my eyes weren’t popping out enough, she’d rewind. Once this misery was accomplished, she sent me on to enjoy the rest of the day, anticipating the frizzy mess I could expect tomorrow, and got to work on my sister’s hair. I tried to stay out of sight to avoid being ridiculed by the neighbor kids.

After trouble and expense of inflicting a perm on us, Mother made us leave the hard plastic curlers in overnight, fearing an early release might let the curl “fall out.” My fine hair was no match for the perm solution, and I was never fortunate enough for my curl to “fall out.” I was glad to get the curlers out the next morning, but dreaded the reveal of the “fried, frizzy, old lady hairdo.” I was never disappointed. Mother took the perm curlers out and we all looked like Brillo Pads. When we complained about how horrible it looked, Mother assured us it would be fine after we rolled it. That just postponed the disaster. When the brush rollers and hair pens came out at the end of the day, it was always even worse than I remembered from the year before. I wanted to die. Mother always tried to cheer us up by saying, “The frizz will wear off in about a week.” When we weren’t cheered by that, she offered the cold comfort, “Well, it will always grow back. Now, dry up.I’ve heard enough!”  I still don’t think she’s heard nearly enough.  There should not be a statute of limitations on those who abuse helpless children with home-perms.

She worked herself into a self-righteous frenzy of pity when we refused to be grateful for the torture she’d inflicted on us just to ensure we’d be social outcasts for another year. We always went back to school with a frizzy mess, looking we’d escaped from an insane granny cult. The fact that my sisters shared my fate did nothing to cheer me. Who wants to look like that bunch of freaks?

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60 thoughts on “Home Perms Run Amuk

  1. I’m surprised your hair didn’t fall out after leaving the curlers in all night. I hope she at least washed the solution out and put that stuff on it that was supposed to keep it from burning. I too have that fine hair and I went to school a kinky mess. No wonder my brother told me not to worry because ugly little girls grow up to be beautiful big girls. I’m still waiting.😳

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  2. Love this. My sister gave me a perm one time…. I have a lot of very fine, thin, very straight hair. I swear my hair grew in curly for years after that perm – the gift that kept on giving. She did a good job but I looked like little orphan annie (except I had irises/pupils). Perms. YUCK! You have a flair for writing!

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  3. My mom had a barber snip off my braids at age nine and then the neighbor gave me a home perm. My hair was fine and had a little natural curl. My head looked like a bush. My grandmother took me to a hair stylist who thankfully cut most of the perm out. My mother was very upset, but not me. Mom saved the braids in a canning jar in case I ever wanted a hair piece made. 😀 — Suzanne

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  4. MY mom went the curling iron route. I went through every major childhood event looking like a redheaded red-eyed (from weeping) Orphan Annie, with vicious red burns across her forehead and the tips of her ears.

    Ouch!

    Your mom sounds like she was a tough cookie, all right.

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  5. Hair! No matter how you wear it, It’s never right. Mine is fine and straight as a poker. Mom did not ever do our hair. She was inept in that department but allowed us to be tortured by others. I even became a hairdresser to find some method of managing this mess. I would love a decent soft perm but it’s hard to find someone who knows how to do it well without causing all the hair to fall out. Yes, I’ve lost huge chunks from a professional perm. Now I’m back to long and straight where I pull it into a pony tail to keep it out of my way. I do remember the Lilt perms. Did one on my daughter and she hated it. She’s long and straight too. 😦 I just want a little curl. 🙂 I love your memory of this.

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  6. Oh boy do I remember the home perms. I was born with fine straight hair and mom permed mine several times. The curls lasted a day or two and eventually no sign a curl on my head–except the last one she gave me held–forever. I must have been around 12 years-old when my hair went permanently curly and has never again been straight. The irony of it is just too much. I spent my high school years with a bushy, kinky, curly hair and basically wore a white-girl afro. I’ve learned to appreciate it in my old age but more often than not I spend hours straightening it out with a hot iron. Great memory. I’m glad I found your blog and always look for your funny posts. I think we were twins separated at birth…we’ve lived a similar life, for sure. Happy New Year!

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  7. Yikes! It must have been a horrifying experience. Sounds like the same results could have been achieved more quickly and less painfully by having you all lick your fingers and stick them into the power outlet. What an excellent first post, though! Really good. 🙂

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  8. I love this post! It throws me back to my childhood when my mom refused to allow my wild, frizzy hair (with the abundant natural curls) to be cut short. I suffered through the opposite spectrum to you – she suppressed my hair with straightening, blow drying to the point where my eyes looked like cooked yolks and tight ponytails! Agony!

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