My father’s parents divorced, long before I knew any of them. Granddaddy married, the second time, a large, raw-boned, country woman with a shock of red hair which would later feature a swath of purest white down one side. She left it that way, and I loved it. She was like that. She was what she was, and this made her easy to love.
Granddaddy had long since closed the small grocery store he owned and operated for many years. Charlotte supported them by owning and operating a beauty shop. And, it was a beauty shop. It was not a salon, or a spa; it was a beauty shop. Blue-haired ladies sat in a row, under hooded dryers that ran along one garishly painted wall. Daily gossip drowned out country music. playing over a transistor radio sitting on the front desk, and all the “operators” wore smocks. Charlotte added to her earnings by contracting with a local funeral home to dress the tresses of those who would no longer need her services.
My sisters may take exception to my opinion, but in truth, only one of us was born with good hair. Holly has hair, and then some. She was the only one of the four of us to be born with color, thickness, and curls. The rest of us were born blonde, fine, and stick-straight.
Despite, or perhaps, due to the fact that it was to her contribution to our genetics that we owed our lanky locks, my mother frequently drove my sister and I several miles, across town to my Grandmother’s house, for a perm.
The box was pink, with the word “Toni” spelled, in large letters across the top. And, after a while, it became a ritual to come home from my grandmother’s house, and take one look in the mirror before turning on the faucet in hopes of washing out some of the neutralizer. I was usually successful, and my mother never commented.
I have always had a love/hate relationship with my hair. Pictures of me, through the years, show the struggle I’ve endured in finding just the right length, color, and style. After grade school the trips across town stopped, and I grew my hair to conform to the current fashion; long, straight, and parted in the middle. We all looked exactly the same, and that year’s school portrait remains among my favorite from my childhood.
By the time I entered the eleventh grade I was working part-time, and used my earnings to create my style. For years, I had frequented my mother’s beauty shop, where Diane carved stylish “wings” into my hair. Sure she would not be able to keep up with my avant-gardes style; I drove across town to a salon in which the stylist was only too willing to shave my locks to within a half-inch of my scalp. Tears welled in my mother’s eyes as I breezed through the backdoor, but she never said a discouraging word.
I shudder to think of my hair while in nursing school. Suffice it to say, it was big, and garnered many complements. But, it was the eighties, after all…
I’ve been long. I’ve been short. For a time I fancied red; a deep, brownish-red, chestnut perhaps. I married with red hair. I chose a dove gray dress. It worked.
I admire curls. Of course I do! The grass is always greener… It was my yearning for curls that enabled my first visit to my current stylist.
He liked long hair. What man doesn’t? I grew it to please him. But, as it grew, it hung like spider webs around my face. Tired, bored, and looking for a change, I went in search of a salon. At 9:00 am, on a Saturday morning, the choices were few. Several cars in front of the door told me they were accepting customers, and I pulled in.
I felt immediate unease, as I repeated my assignment several times, to a petite, dark-skinned woman who hadn’t, as yet, conquered the English language. Choosing to put my anxieties aside, I took a seat among the unknowing. I wanted curls.
A middle-aged woman approached me apologetically. As I took her seat, I searched the mirror for a license and, finding it, relaxed against the vinyl. She papered, and rolled, papered, and rolled. I noticed her questioning a nearby stylist frequently, and decided that my style was so new, so fresh, that she required assistance to achieve the effect I had so masterfully described.
I left, with curls that would have made my Grandmother proud!
Several weeks later, as the curls dissolved into frizz, I jangled the bell of a different salon. They had closed. The last customer had left several minutes before. Deedee took one look at my hair, and pity overcame her aching legs and tired arms. In what seemed like minutes, she transformed my angry locks into something I could live with.
Since that time, I’ve gone shorter. Gwen Stefani inspired me to go beyond blonde, and Gina Glocksen took off about four inches. I wore the “Graduated Bob” until everyone one else graduated. Unhappy to see myself replicated everywhere I went, I changed again.
This year, I’m curly again, but, less curly; wavy, really. The style is blonde, and soft, and where I am now. It suits us both, me and my hair. I’ve given up control, and it feels like the right thing to do.
Deedee tells me that I can’t do color and perm in one visit. My hair is darker now. I search for tell-tale grays among my roots.
And, seeing one, revel in the real.
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 
