I am a child of the late ’80s and early ’90s. And somehow, I managed to never get a perm.
I wore my share of acid-washed jeans (rolled at the bottoms, of course), layered socks, jellies and slap bracelets, but I never, ever had a perm. I was always so jealous of the girls in class with the perfectly crimped waves rippling through their locks. I did, however, have a mother at home who knew her way around a curling iron. On special occasions (picture day, anyone?) or usually just whenever I asked, she would bring out the all-powerful, curl-creating iron rod and transform my dull, straight hair to poofed, curled and teased perfection. I have the second-grade class picture to prove it.
Once the fads of the ’80s passed, the allure of the perm died out. Except with ladies my granny’s age. My granny used to rock an awesome perm. And she, like many of her counterparts, went with regularity to the salon to lock in place that curled look.
Well, friends, I’m here to tell you perms are no longer just for Punky Brewster-era kiddos or grandmas. I am now the official owner (wearer?) of my very own perm. ‘Why?,’ you ask. Because it’s driving me bonkers to grow out this straight, stringy hair of mine for the wedding day, and I decided I didn’t want to rock the straight, stringy look for my engagement photos. Which are being taken this week. Case closed.
So, with an equal mix of trepidation and child-like excitement, I scheduled an appointment with a salon downtown last week. Two and a half hours after sitting in my stylist’s chair, I walked out a new woman – one with curls that weren’t going to fall out after a few hours passed. It’s really nothing too crazy, just a nice little wave. I seriously could not be happier with it.
The Frozen Southerner 