The day it wasn’t fair it all happened to my hair.
I was 11 years old. There was a popular television program that I would always watch at that young age. It was a television series that aired every Saturday night about a single father raising his three sons. I watched that family show religiously every weekend.
Anyway, one of the son’s eventually was old enough to marry on the show and his wife had the most beautiful shiny blonde hair that my black and white portable television could ever do justice. Her hair had a curl to it that tucked underneath, and, eventually, after numerous inquiries, I was given the proper name for such a hair style; it was called a page boy.
Now mind you, I was 11 years old. Do you know what an 11-year-old girl’s hair looks like? Well, I can guarantee you it wasn’t as prim and proper as the woman’s hair on the television show. My hair was long and stringy. That’s it, just long and it hung down sometimes getting in the kitchen sink, other times stuck in my meatloaf dinner.
It was my father who decided one day that I was in dire need of a haircut, and when he brought the interesting subject up, the first hair style I could think of was the one on the son’s wife from the television show.
I want my hair to look just like that, I said proudly.
And so it was that my father drove me to the women’s hair salon several miles away that weekend. I can remember a woman going over where the magazines were stacked in the corner and coming back with a few overstuffed pillows for me to sit on as she styled my hair. I must have sat in that seat for a good two hours, at least that’s what it felt like, and the smell! I can probably still smell that permanent chemical that was put into my young hair even as I write this article.
After sitting patiently awaiting for my new television look-alike hairdo to be born, that woman brought out a can of hair spray that must have been bigger than anything I have ever seen. She must have sprayed that entire can on my hair, because by the time my father came back to pick me up, I was in tears, as I looked in the mirror at my new hairdo.
And it wasn’t a pageboy.
In fact, I don’t recollect having a name for it other than telling my father,
I look old!
It’s too big!
The minute we arrived home, I made a mad dash to the shower and attempted to wash it out, but to no avail. It would take several months and many shampoos before the chemicals left my hair and my natural hair started to regrow. And that it finally did, and I was so happy to turn the page girl!