When I was a little girl Mother insisted on braiding my hair, and I never liked pigtails. She wanted me to have perms and wear half bangs. I didn’t have home permanents but real ones at the local beauty shop. In my first grade picture there I was, freckles and all, wearing a brown tam with this long red mess of curly, unruly hair sticking out everywhere.

When I reached adulthood, issues with my hair continued to plague me, and it soon became obvious they would continue to do so for my entire life. The story I am about to tell you is true.

Like most women in the free world and many in third world countries I’ve always disliked something about my hair. Nine or more women in ten share my opinion. Friends say it doesn’t look “that bad”: the kiss of death. One haughty bridge club maven said, “I’m glad you finally did something to your hair.”

Perms were a ritual forced upon me until that magical moment when I made an adult decision to never again subject myself to such torture. Remember those little rollers with black rubber bands attached to one end that held every strand of hair so tightly in place you were sure your hair would be pulled out by the roots? The size of the rollers was identified by color. Some were pink, some turquoise, and there were white and yellow ones. The little button holding the other end of the unforgiving rubber cord was clipped into the end of the rollers and soaked in that stinking solution that dripped down your face and neck and almost suffocated you as you held the towel to sop up the solution. Since my now mature second-born son was about two, I’ve never again subjected myself to the choking fumes of the temporary curl called a permanent.

Because it seemed to be the right thing to do I have on occasion had my hair professionally colored. Once it was glow-in-the-dark florescent orange is what it was. The perfect match of warning cones on any road under construction: that was the color of my hair. After hours in the chair of the woman I had paid to professionally tint my hair, her drabbing procedure failed. I walked out of the salon looking as if my head was on fire. I never returned to that salon. She was appropriately embarrassed and after all these years still lowers her head pretending not to see me.

At that time I was employed at a local elementary school and the students noticed my hair right off! I know they did, because they said, “Wow, Mrs. Wright, I bet you don’t ever get lost at night, do you!”

A friend drawled, “Oh, Honey, I think your hair is just darlin’! That’s the color the girls in France are wearing now.” I did not give a rip about what color the girls in France were wearing. I just wanted to be rid of this awful, unbelievable bawdy color! Eventually after much scrubbing and passage of time, the color mercifully faded, but the traumatic memory did not.

I find it hard to believe, but I went to yet another salon referred by a friend. I let her do her thing, giving perfect instructions, showing pictures of the desired color, selecting swatches from color samples. I nearly died when each side of my formerly golden reddish blonde hair turned purple.

I called my helpful friend who reminded me she only said this woman gave great haircuts, and had offered no advice whatsoever on her ability to color hair. Why is this happening to me?

That did it. I made a decision to spend around $10 or so for hair-color products. If I didn’t like the look I could try again without spending nearly as much money. The purple wore off with the help of frequent, really strong shampoos. I colored my own locks, carefully mixing light red with blonde, sure to achieve a natural look. Well, it was natural all right except for a traffic-light red splotch on one side above my right ear and another one on the left side a bit farther back. I was in a terrible mess . . . again.

I was soon to meet my first-born son for lunch, and I knew he would show me no mercy. I called another salon, a sweet girl who had previously cut my hair, and confessed. She told me to just put a lot of conditioner on it. I told her it would take a lot more than conditioner. I drove to her shop. She stared open-mouthed and quickly grabbed a bottle of solution she said had just come in and would strip the color right out of my hair. Well, it stripped it all right. Fifty dollars and a tip later I was as grey as an ancient field rat. Everyone said it didn’t look bad (the kiss of death) since there seemed to be some blonde highlights if you looked real close. I was confident my next-of kin would not recognize me.

Aforementioned eldest son asked, while sitting at my table eating the food I had prepared for him and his family, if the color of my hair was enhanced. That was right after mentioning he and his scheming brother had been discussing my age, and neither of them knew how old I was. I told him it was none of their business. He replied, “No, Mom, really. If something were to happen we might need to know how old you are.” I assured my nosy son nothing could ever happen when he would need to know my age. I also gave him a lesson I hope he won’t forget: No secret is safe with a woman who will tell her age. The next time I saw him, he had all the answers. My husband was surely the blabbermouth.

Enhanced? Yes, it was enhanced. What was so wrong with that? We enhance a lot of things. There are tummy tucks, face lifts, teeth whitenings, toe straightenings, acrylic nails, hood removals, just name it, and it is available to improve one’s looks. So I needed some enhancement now and then. Get over it!

After much soul searching, I phoned the busiest salon in town and tried to schedule an appointment with one of their best. She was able to work me in five weeks later. By this time my hair was some undetermined color: grizzly grey russet, no color, cuss it! I just said, “Do something!”

She began doing all those beauty shop things to my pale forlorn tresses. Two hues of red she meticulously painted with a brush on tiny threads of hair, wrapping them in squares of tin foil. I could tell she had done this before. I knew this time it was going to be good.

When the process was at long last done, I loved it! I scheduled another appointment. I gave her a generous tip. I decided then and there not to let her get away. This skilled professional, my new best friend, was to remain an integral part of my life.

Well, after a few weeks the hair faded a lot, and my appointment for color was more than a whole month away. So off I went to the discount store for something to tone down this glow-in-the-dark white hair now calling my head home. It is another cross women must bear, much like finding the right husband or choosing the right names for her children. A blonde hair color mixture and an hour later, my spirits were lifted considerably!

The day arrived when all would be right with the world again. I reminded her how much I just loved the way she colored my hair the last time. She went to work. Then her phone rang, another customer came in. She was on the phone again. There I sat under the dryer with red dye and all that foil on my hair until I’d read the newspaper and worked the crossword puzzle. The phone was relentless. The other customer required a lot of her time. I waited. At long last it was my turn.

What is this? Something has gone terribly wrong. My hair was the color of Old English Furniture polish. I couldn’t even speak. Someone said I sure looked a lot better than I did when I came in. I was in shock.

The next morning students asked if I had dyed my hair. “Oh, no, little Einsteins, I baptized my head in a vat of furniture polish or maybe I rubbed in oxblood shoe polish while I slept.” Fellow employees assured me it didn’t look “that bad,” except for the nurse who suggested I phone Old English and offer to do a commercial for them. She said they could slap a label on me and not have to do a thing to my hair. Wringing my hands, I asked for advice. One of the secretaries, the resident hair expert, said, “Frost it.”

Hurrying to the store, I bought a kit. Too upset to do anything to my hair before a good night’s rest, I arose at 4:30 the next morning. I put on my glasses and began the tedious process of using a crochet hook to pull strands through the microscopic holes in the provided plastic cap tied securely under my chin. My head became hotter and hotter. The sweat was running in my eyes and down my cheeks. I mopped sweat and kept pulling through strands, determined I could do this. I didn’t pull out much of my hair. At last I was ready to mix the glorious bleaching solution that would transform me into a person with reasonably normal hair color. Twenty minutes later I washed it out and faced the results with fear and trembling.

Life was good again. It was an acceptable color. I no longer looked like an attack of the furniture polish. I was no longer the subject of derision. For a few weeks I should be safe, then I’d have to make hair decisions again since the roots would be showing. Since I am obviously not a loyal customer of any salon, it might be a good idea to do it myself! I suppose I’m really doomed to fight with my hair as long as I have any.