When I was four years old, I had ringleted honey-colored hair, bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, milky skin. I was a very attractive, if Aryan-looking, little one. But then my dainty baby teeth were replaced by crooked, horsey chompers, and I scarred my face through clumsiness and chicken pox. Moles popped up. By fifth grade, I was not an ugly child, just a homely one. Almost every child goes through an awkward period, but they all think they're the only ones experiencing such ennui. I was no exception. "I look like a hermaphrodite," I'd wail. "And a Krakatoa of a pimple is about to burst on my nose!"
In an attempt to boost my self-esteem, my parents showered compliments on me. "Oh, you are getting more and more beautiful as you grow up," my father said. "You'd be so pretty if you didn't have that damned Tomlin nose," my mother said. At home, my parents praised my alleged beauty, while at school my classmates picked apart my flaws. They were happy to point out my flat chest, uneven smile, scarred eyebrow, braces, discolored tooth, generic Keds, Sears-bought corduroys. I felt ugly, and to combat their criticism, I did what any other 11-year-old in 1989 would do.
I got a spiral perm.
It didn't happen overnight, of course. I had to beg my mom for a perm, giving her no real reason except that everyone else was getting a perm and I would be the only girl with straight hair. "Well, how much would that cost?" was my mother's refrain. I did some research. The popular girls at school went to the Clipper Ship, a nautical-themed hair salon decorated with fishing nets and taxidermied fish. I called the Clipper Ship and reported my findings to my mother.
"We can't afford that," she yelped upon hearing the price. "Pssh. For forty dollars, you're just paying for the ambiance."
But my mother loved me, and my mother is a wily and frugal woman. She eventually contacted Nan, a French-Vietnamese neighbor who also "did hair." In our tiny corner of Michigan, nobody is a stylist; people are hairdressers, or they "do hair." So my mother made a deal for Nan to come over one Saturday afternoon to give me a spiral perm. "It'll only be $25, and you can have it done in the kitchen," my mother explained. I was on my way!
When Nan came to our house, she showed us all kinds of rollers. "I want tight curls," I instructed. "And teased bangs." Nan and my mother tried to talk me out of this coiffure choice, but I would have none of it. And when the rollers came out, and my hair reeked of chemicals, I was the happiest girl in Van Buren County. So happy, in fact, that my jagged smile almost deafened the taunts of Poodlehead that came my way when I went to school the following Monday.
In an attempt to boost my self-esteem, my parents showered compliments on me. "Oh, you are getting more and more beautiful as you grow up," my father said. "You'd be so pretty if you didn't have that damned Tomlin nose," my mother said. At home, my parents praised my alleged beauty, while at school my classmates picked apart my flaws. They were happy to point out my flat chest, uneven smile, scarred eyebrow, braces, discolored tooth, generic Keds, Sears-bought corduroys. I felt ugly, and to combat their criticism, I did what any other 11-year-old in 1989 would do.
I got a spiral perm.
It didn't happen overnight, of course. I had to beg my mom for a perm, giving her no real reason except that everyone else was getting a perm and I would be the only girl with straight hair. "Well, how much would that cost?" was my mother's refrain. I did some research. The popular girls at school went to the Clipper Ship, a nautical-themed hair salon decorated with fishing nets and taxidermied fish. I called the Clipper Ship and reported my findings to my mother.
"We can't afford that," she yelped upon hearing the price. "Pssh. For forty dollars, you're just paying for the ambiance."
But my mother loved me, and my mother is a wily and frugal woman. She eventually contacted Nan, a French-Vietnamese neighbor who also "did hair." In our tiny corner of Michigan, nobody is a stylist; people are hairdressers, or they "do hair." So my mother made a deal for Nan to come over one Saturday afternoon to give me a spiral perm. "It'll only be $25, and you can have it done in the kitchen," my mother explained. I was on my way!
When Nan came to our house, she showed us all kinds of rollers. "I want tight curls," I instructed. "And teased bangs." Nan and my mother tried to talk me out of this coiffure choice, but I would have none of it. And when the rollers came out, and my hair reeked of chemicals, I was the happiest girl in Van Buren County. So happy, in fact, that my jagged smile almost deafened the taunts of Poodlehead that came my way when I went to school the following Monday.
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