Still here.
It’s been a while. Not because I ran out of things to say — if anything, the opposite. The last stretch has been quieter than usual because I’ve been deep in my own healing work, and back on the road again after some time off.
Both of those things took more of me than writing does, for a while.
But I’m back, starting with the story of a fraught beauty decision I made in 1988, prom season, and a photo to prove it.
More soon. Glad you’re still here.
It was 1988, the “year of the spiral perm.” I was 16. Everyone wanted those gorgeous, tight, round curls with a four-inch lift in the bangs — soaked in Aqua Net and teased within an inch of their lives to keep it tall and proud. I begged my mom to let me have a perm. My long, straight hair hung limply around my face in a time when the higher the hair, the more popular the girl. I needed a boost. I wanted to be cool like the other girls in my class.
Prom was the perfect opportunity. I needed a special hairdo anyway — no one went to prom without one. My mother reluctantly agreed, and off we went the week before to the salon where she worked, watering the plants and keeping the décor stylish in exchange for her paycheck. Peter, the salon owner, had agreed to perm my hair and wax my eyebrows in exchange for a little extra water for his gorgeous greenery.
As I sat nervously in the chair, Sade’s “Sweetest Taboo” came on the radio. I wasn’t supposed to know this music — secular, and by our church’s reckoning, carrying the beat of the devil — but inside, quietly, I was humming along anyway.
Peter’s hands moved through my hair, feeling the texture, deciding if this was going to work. I was nervous, half-convinced my mom had quietly told him not to actually do it — that he’d invent some excuse and send me home with a trim instead. But this was my day. Victory. He placed the long foam rods in my hair, tucking each plait expertly around them.
Before long, he was applying the perm solution over my scalp, each rod saturated with the sharp-smelling chemical, the cold liquid burning faintly as I sat there in anticipation. Eventually, he tucked me under the dryer, and I waited for the results, still humming along under my breath.
Peter came back and started to unravel his masterpiece. My long, bone-straight hair was suddenly a tangled mass of waves piled on top of my head. This was not a gentle spiral perm — this was a riot of tight, deep curls, three inches shorter than when we’d started, curling wildly all over my head.
My eyes filled with tears. This was not what I’d asked for. It was exactly what I needed — I just didn’t know it yet. All I could see was my dream of prom court flying out the window. No one would want to dance with me with my head looking like Medusa’s snakes, let alone vote for me to win the night’s coveted prize. How could this have gone so horribly wrong?
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