Hair today, embarrassed tomorrow

Hair today, embarrassed tomorrow
By Karen Barker Crowley

I’ve written before about my ongoing struggle with my daughter’s unruly hair. I have to chase her with a hairbrush. I’ve grown frustrated with her refusal to wear barrettes. I’ve started taking her to a kids’ hair salon on a regular basis. It’s tough, but I’ve been trying to relax about it. Nora is only 3. Who cares about hair? Why is hair such a big deal?

Let me tell you: Childhood hair can come back to haunt you.

I just went to my 15-year high school reunion. The organizers set up a photo display, and we were all invited to send in photos from our school days. One of my classmates sent in a wallet-sized print of my seventh grade school photo, and there it was, hanging on the wall. Perhaps I should be touched that this person still had a photo of me after nearly 20 years, but really, for the good of humanity, all copies of this photo should have been burned – and the ashes buried in an undisclosed location – in 1987.

This is not a good photo.

You know how there are photos where you, personally, imagine you look bad, but really you look just fine? And other people try to reassure you? Sometimes, even if you still look semi-bad, other people still try to tell a little white lie to reassure you? Nobody could even lie well enough to reassure me. My friend Diane, who I have known since I was about 13, spotted the photo and screamed, "HOLY (BAD WORD)!"

This is not a good photo.

The bad part was not my red-and-black-striped ’80s sweater. It was not my chipmunk cheeks. I had a fairly decent facial expression, and I'd just gotten my braces off, so things could have been much, much worse, I suppose. What makes this photo so outstanding in the world of Bad School Photos is my hairdo. My awful, awful hairdo.

But Karen, you're thinking, everyone had an awful hairdo in 1987. This is true. But my hairdo was awful even by 1987 standards. In the 1980s, perms raged across the land, and nearly every female looked like she was wearing a poodle on her head; however, most females knew how to style a perm the way it was supposed to be styled. These gals looked like they were at least wearing a nice-looking poodle. A frisky, healthy, glossy, well-cared-for poodle. My poodle? This was clearly a down-on-his-luck, hard-drinking, depressed poodle. This was a poodle who had given up on life, overdosed on cocaine, wandered into a pounding rainstorm, died in the gutter and somehow managed to end up on my head.

I had no idea how to style a perm. And the sad thing is, I'm sure I worked really hard to achieve this hairdo on Picture Day and was probably pretty proud of how it turned out. I was 12. I was oblivious. Twelve-year-olds should not be entrusted with perms. There should be a waiting period. You should have to pass a test on hair styling before you are allowed to get a perm on your own head.

In the ’80s, nobody knew that a perm is a privilege, not a right.

I worry about how this photo may have affected some of the other reunion attendees. I'm pretty sure a few of them went blind instantly; others will probably suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

I’d be remiss as a mother if I didn’t gather wisdom from this experience and pass it along to my daughter. Never get a perm, I will tell her. If you do, never give away a photo of yourself with said perm.

Now I’m going to get the hairbrush. And the barrettes.