My permed-hair hell

FOR a handful of years, I have followed the advice of the style counsellors and remained sober in the hair department. I am not cured, but a recovering permaholic and I have followed the 13-step guide to having a sleek, slick and "natural" do. But straight is, well, straight - and recently I have become restless.

So, imagine my glee when I heard curls were making a comeback. But then, like an elastic band pulled back through time

and snapped square onto my forehead, I suddenly remembered the agonies of my youth and the realities of perm hell.

I was the second girl in my school to have a perm and I carried on perming until everyone else was way over it.

But it wasn't my fault. Having your first perm is like taking a first tentative sip of shandy and before long you're a full- blown alcoholic. There are no Priory Clinics for people trying to come off a perm.

The first time was with Jeff, and he was great. I thought I wanted to marry him. People were flocking from all over Essex to see him at Cutters in Ilford. He was a whiz with the perming lotion and could charm the most determinedly straight hair into luscious curls.

Afterwards, I bounded on to the

Cranbrook Road feeling like a superstar. I was sure fame would soon follow.

Within a month the hairdo and my selfesteem had deflated. Aficionados call it "dropping". I had no idea it would actually uncurl again.

Someone at school suggested I needed a stronger perm and that's when I took my first step on the slippery slope to perm purgatory. My sisters and I sought hairdressers who were willing to risk scalping us by using stronger lotions and leaving us under the dryer for painfully hot hours on end. We went from shaggy perms to stack perms to wet-look perms.

Our perms got bigger and better, but it still wasn't enough.

THEN, one day, we discovered the devil's own potion, The Home Perm. We would swap tips with other perm addicts at school. "Get small curlers, wind them up really tight and leave the neutraliser on for twice as long as it says on the box," said one expert friend. "Buy a hairdryer with the hose and plastic hood attachment and sit under that for the afternoon and bake it dry," said another. I was oldest, so I went first. After an afternoon of ringing my hands in anguish, eyes watering and curlers wound tightly, I emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis. I was the Wet Look Queen.Then I combed the beast and I became the Afro Queen.

When my dad dropped us at school with our new perms, the entire back of the car was filled with hair, enormous perms jostling for pride of place. My dad couldn't see out of his rear-view mirror.

Our friends at school called us The Hair Bear Bunch and some unkind children even greeted us with a chorus of, "Help!

Help! Here come the bears."

It all came to a terrible climax when, one day, I persuaded my mum to give me the killer perm of the Eighties. Later, while relaxing in the bath in post-perm euphoria, I teased my hair and, to my horror, an entire curl came off in my hand, then another and another until half my hair was sitting on the side. I finally realised I had to break the habit. It was hard, believe me. I spent months watching what was left of my hair grow out straight at the roots in stark contrast to the wild frizz that circled the lower part of my pate. From a distance I looked like a Benedictine monk, hence the silly hat, pictured above. When the final curl was cut, I felt free at last.

So, on reflection, I don't think I will have another perm. I'm not ready to fall off the wagon. And I never shall be. This girl has permanently waved goodbye to the permanent wave.

Copyright 2002
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.