The Curls Are Back: A Tribute to Vanity
I finally had that perm I’ve been wanting to get since last year. It’s part of my whole ‘new life, new image’ project. And with my recent retrenchment at work after 7 years, I figured this was the perfect time to get a new look as any.
So off I went to my usual salon at a nearby mall to announce to my hairdresser (whom I see about twice a year—that’s how rarely I get a trim) my intentions of curling my long straight hair. I was thinking bouncy Korean curls or gorgeous Marian Rivera waves. Vincent, my hairdresser, looks on skeptically. Today he has crimson matte lips and platinum blonde hair cut into a fashionable fringe. His French-tipped fingers run through my ponytail thoughtfully. “When was the last time you had a rebond?” he asks me in Tagalog.
“A year and a half ago,” I reply. I knew the rule: you can’t have a perm until after more than a year since your last rebond. At least.
“The rebond chemical is still in your hair, right about here,” he points out with an expert eye, gesturing to a length around my shoulder blades. “We’ll have to cut your hair first, otherwise the perming lotion will not set.”
“Sure,” I say breezily, then pause. “Wait. How short?”
Vincent purses his red lips. “Four inches.”
My heart sinks. Lopping four inches off my mane would bring the length up to just below my shoulders. After the perm, that would further shorten my hair. Visions of glamorous long flowing curls were beginning to fade from my mind, and I was starting to think this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
My hairdresser’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “But you can still pull off the length,” he observes. “You have a pretty face. It will just look different.”
At his last words my resolve strengthens. Different. That was the whole purpose of this trip, wasn’t it? “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”
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Ten minutes later, after the shampoo girl is done washing my hair, I’m sitting in a chair, staring nervously at the mirror while Vincent picks up a pair of shears and starts hacking. I eye the long locks falling to the floor and my palms begin to feel cold. My long straight hair was one of my best features, and as I sat there slowly losing my hair (voluntarily, no less), I was wondering if I was crazy.
New look. Different. Taking risks, I chant to myself like a mantra.
By the time Vincent was done, the floor surrounding my chair was covered with ebony locks. His assistant/shampoo girl comes over with a broom and starts sweeping them up. “Oh, your hair is so beautiful,” she compliments the linoleum. I close my eyes briefly in pain.
When I open them again, I see my hair cut to a shoulder-length bob. Hmm, come to think of it, it doesn’t look that bad, I muse, turning my head to one side. The style is similar to Katie Holmes’ ‘do on Dawson’s Creek (yeah, that’s how long ago I watched a teen series… when I was a teen.)
Vincent then comes over armed with rollers and vile-smelling perming lotion, and everything becomes a little hazy after that.
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A curly-haired creature blinks back at me in the mirror 45 minutes later. Newly-minted curls barely brush my shoulders, which is alienating at first—both the length and the style. With a little more styling and some of Vincent’s lipstick, I could pass for a 1930’s girl in a Cloche hat and a tailored suit with sleeve caps. Vincent flits around me as he layers the curls to give it a nice structure.
It will definitely take some getting used to. But Vincent and I agree that once my curly hair grows out a little, the effect will be stunning. (keeps fingers crossed) J
