Yesterday, while fishing the internet’s deep waters for a story referencing fashions from the early 2000s, I hooked a 2019 Harper’s Bazaar article, the title of which curled the hairs on the back of my neck: “Is the perm the biggest (and most surprising) hair trend for 2020?”
Made popular in the 1980s—think Jennifer Gray in Dirty Dancing and Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally—perms eventually stunk away into the past. Until now, thirty years later. The Harper’s article opens with, “The perm is back: there aren't many four-word phrases in the beauty world that could cause such a flicker of panic in even the most hardy of hair trend followers.” The article goes on to say, “The perm process has also been undergoing a low-profile transformation. There are more techniques being used to limit damage—both from the chemicals and the heat required to set the curls….”
A story from my stinky past cried out to be told.
Arriving at Oklahoma University in the autumn of 1969, I weighed in at a marshmallowy two-ten. During that first year, I embellished my Stay Puft physique with a gnarly beard, Frank Zappa hair, flannel shirts, jeans, and Timberland work boots—a poster image for male hippies during the late 60s and early 70s. Then I got a job selling women’s footwear and accessories in a trendy store on campus. I lost fifty pounds, shaved the beard, whacked off the locks, and started wearing swanky clothes.
I graduated in the summer of 1974. High-honors diploma in hand, svelte, Hugo-bossed wardrobe, and now general manager of what had expanded to three trendy women’s footwear and accessory stores located in Norman, Oklahoma City, and Tulsa. I swan dived into a pool of self-admiration, ready to take my seat alongside Ralph, Georgio, and Calvin; the fashion elite. My ego, already soaring at ten-thousand feet, rose another ten-thousand after a shoe-buying trip to New York City in 1982. While walking through the perfume department of Bloomingdale’s at 59th and Lexington, a lab-coated, heavily made up, high-heeled salesperson spritz-attacked me with a blast of Armani Cologne. Between hacks and tears, she asked if I was Pierce Brosnan. Bottling the moment, I simply shrugged my shoulders and walked on.
After returning home and still intoxicated from Eau de Brosnan residue, I happened upon an episode of Remington Steele. I studied my ‘twin,’ wondering how that Bloomies perfume terrorist could have mistaken me for Pierce. The outfit? Similar European cut. The self-assured smile? Definitely. The hair? Parted like mine…but wait. The irksome difference hit me right in the cowlick. His hair had waves. Mine did not. It was time for action. And a perm. While the high cost of obtaining the perm resulted in curvy locks and fed my rampant narcissism, the added physical and mental trauma made the price extortionate. And, I willingly paid it every ninety days. For six years.
Back in the 80’s, my quest for wavy hair required the indignance of being draped in a polka-dotted shower curtain vice-gripped around my throat while being held hostage in a salon chair by the coiffurista. She snapped on armpit-length black rubber gloves to protect her skin. Not mine. Then fistfuls of hair were wound so tight against my head, I was unable to blink and felt grey matter oozing from the follicles. All this paled in misery, however, to the moment she started gooping me with permicide—a chemical combo reminiscent of diaper poop, rotten eggs, and skunk discharge. Intended for the rollers, much of the toxic mash seeped out onto exposed skin. Thus, the birth of perm burns.
After the hour-long torment, Ms. Rasputin swung the chair around. I beheld my head occupied by legions of rollers wrapped in enough Reynolds Wrap Aluminum Foil to signal E.T. Vapor-induced tears filled the wells formed by my stretched-open eyelids. Optimism broke through, however, as I anticipated her removing the rollers, washing, cutting, and blow-drying my permed do. But no, the real fun was about to begin. She engulfed my throbbing head in a brownish-green stained shower cap so that the chemical ingredients mingled and did their noxious magic. Then she escorted me down Agony Boulevard where, along with other morons, my head roasted beneath a hairdryer set at “Solar Heat.” The mixture of radioactive sludge and the sun’s heat burned the inside of my nostrils and filled the air with a vinegary-tinged aroma of smoked meat. Finally, the two-hour abuse ended and I was free to go. To begin three months shampooing my hair with Lysol to stop those who sniffed the air whenever I was around. Just in time for my next perm.
Driving home after that first perm, I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror. Pretending I didn’t know this guy, I thought about his looks. Confident. Square jaw. Assertive brown eyes. Love the way the hair ripples across his scalp. I sighed and winked at the man in the mirror. With increased verve, it was time to cruise the perfume aisles at Nordstrom, Neiman-Marcus, and Bloomingdale’s. And sign autographs.
It feels good to have finally gotten this off my scalp. Today, at sixty-nine, I have maintained my weight. Give or take twelve pounds. I have reinstated the beard. Shorter turf and a good trimmer. My hair has developed a natural wave. Likely from scalp glands infused with permacidal deposits. And I am back to wearing mountain-man-styled clothing and accessories. From Eddie, Kühl, and Keen. I think it’s permanent.