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A tale of mother love
and great sacrifices
By PATRICIA J. GEISTER
of TheColumnists.com
“Mom, save your money. You don’t need to go to the beauty shop when you want your hair done. Let me do it. I’ve already got the hair dryer and all kinds of rollers.”
“What if I need my hair cut? I won't let just anyone cut my hair.”
“No, Mom, I don’t cut hair. That’s something better left to the skill of experts.”
Mom was living with us until her house back in Tulsa was sold. Until that happened money was tight. I wanted to do things to help.
She had taken a job as an employment counselor and recruiter with one of the well known agencies here in town. Her personal appearance and style were always the current fashion. When she walked into the room you knew she was somebody important.
“Sounds like a good idea. Driving isn’t that easy for me yet. I can’t get my directions straight. It would save me time, too.”
That’s how it all began. I’d wash and set her hair here. My husband of that era was working nights and this left me with time for myself. Mom and I always were close and got along well. Trading favors came natural.
“Sure it will. I save a lot of time and money doing my own hair, so I might as well do yours too.” Famous last words. I rue the day I uttered them.
A month went by and I did the hair ritual at least once a week. Sometimes I’d do it twice. Then came the night she said it was time she made an appointment to get her roots touched up.
“Do you know what shade she uses on you? All of those are available to the public, too, you know. I used to do my roommates’ hair color all the time in Los Angeles. I could do it for you. Think of the money you’d save.”
Things were fine. Now I was curling and coloring her hair. She looked great and she was happy. What’s the big deal? It was easy.
Now we come to the third month. “When I got my haircut last week Janey suggested I let her give me a permanent. I’m going to go in for that in another week.”
“I used to trade home perms with my neighbors when I lived on base. Let me do that for you.”
The week after that, on a Sunday night, we got prepared for the home perm event. Surgical nurses set out the surgeons' instruments with as much care as I laid out supplies for that perm. Rollers were put into groups according to size. Those crisp little papers were stacked near by. My trusty rat tail comb I’d use for sectioning the hair gleamed at me. Bottles of wave solution and neutralizer, clean towels, a plastic cape all awaited my skill.
Mom sat down, caped and toweled, ready for the procedure. I folded the perm papers over sections of hair, and I rolled her hair securely against the scalp. Next came the perm wave solution. I carefully, evenly squeezed it onto the rolls of hair. The directions called for a waiting period of 20 minutes before I could check the curl. If it looked like what I wanted, then I was supposed to apply the neutralizer liquid, let it set for 3 minutes. After that, all I had to do was rinse thoroughly with clear water and unroll the perm curlers.
“My hair grabs a perm pretty quick. I think you should check the curl now.”
“No, the timer still has another five minutes to go.”
“Check it anyway,” she insisted.
“All right.” The curl looked a little limp. “No, you’re not quite ready. You really do need the full twenty minutes.”
“If you say so."
The timer went off and I checked that same curl again. “Okay. Now it looks good. Back to the sink so I can neutralize you.”
She got to the sink, leaned forward, and hung her head down. Plink…plink…was the sound I heard.
“Uh-oh, the rollers are coming out of my hair. I told you to roll them tighter on the top of my head.”
I looked down into the sink. Oh, good grief! Those rollers have her hair on them! Quick! Do the neutralizing!
The neutralizer was squeezed onto the hair with lightning speed. “Mom, let’s forget the waiting period. Your hair needs water right now.”
The force of the water spray, even though it was gentle, caused a couple more rollers–and hair–to drop into the sink.
“What’s that sound? Will you have to re-do the top hair?”
“Hold still. I’ve got to get your hair off the rollers as quickly as I can.”
What hair didn’t come off with the roller melted in my hands. I looked down at the blonde goo and began to wish it was a nightmare.
More water! Something has to stop this!
“Hand me a towel, Pat. I’m getting water in my eyes.”
“Mom, let me dry your hair. I don’t want you to apply any pressure or rub it.” More hair came off into the towel.
“Oh, no! Oh, no! Mom, something went wrong.”
She ran to the mirror. I didn’t really want to follow her, but I did. For maybe 10 seconds there was silence. This was followed by a sound something like a startled Canadian goose.
“My hair! My hair’s gone!”
Do you know what a badly done crew cut looks like? A bleached blonde, kinky in spots, crew cut? I saw that in the mirror.
“Mom, I swear, I’ll take my lunch hour tomorrow to go buy you a wig. Call in sick in the morning.” I wanted the nightmare to end. No such luck.
I hadn’t seen my mother cry in many years. I was seeing it now. We both ended up in tears. There were enough to flood a basement. Guilt and remorse had me by the heart.
“No, I’ll choose the wig for myself. Let me borrow your blue silk scarf. I’ll wear it like a turban and pin a couple of silk flowers on it.”
We decided to let her hair dry naturally. Adding heat to this situation might cause an additional trauma. The next day she did buy herself a wig. This was the mid 1960s and they were very stylish. She was so happy with the first wig that she let me buy her a second and third one.
First famous words should
be: Never take bad hair advice. Beware of daughters bearing bottles
of hair color and home permanents.
© 2002 by Patricia J. Geister. The illustrations are from
IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San
Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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