While strolling through Chinatown, I passed one of the many small hair salons. Ladies with thick black hair were getting their $6 cuts, having their nails done for $10 and someone was getting the advertised $20 permanent wave. There's just no mistaking that distinctive smell.
Even though it wasn't as chemical an odor as I remembered, it was enough. One whiff and I was 10 years old, sitting on a stool in the bathroom staring with dread at the Toni box. It was Saturday, nearly Easter and the thought of a Spring makeover possessed my mother -- possessed her to the point of inflicting a home permanent on her youngest daughter.
In retrospect, I consider this an episode of child abuse. There was weeping - mine -- and gnashing of teeth -- Mother's, who was annoyed by my constant fidgeting. I hated the smell, the endless waiting for the chemistry experiment to take hold, the rollers that reminded me of pink (for girls, of course) chicken bones. But most of all I hated the results.
They were nothing at all like the twins on the commericals. You were supposed to guess which one had the Toni. They both had wavy, soft curly hair so it was a difficult choice. But unlike either TV twin, I looked like a chia pet.
I kept tugging at my hair hoping to de-curl it even though Mother kept assuring me that the frizz would be gone by school on Monday. This is the same woman who lied to me about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, so by age 10 her credibility was weak.
It took months for the frizz to settle down. Months of wearing scarves and answering to the name Brillo head on the playground. They don't call it "permanent" for nothing.
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