Pink Straw

A short story, based on a real life hair disaster.

Pink Straw

 

It was the absolutely worst hair experience ever!  My younger sister had moved into the apartment directly below mine.  We were still young, only about 25 and 22, and we were trying to be close, as we hadn’t been for the last few years.  Living in the same building, in a town we both really liked, close enough to visit our parents, but far enough from them to be independent adults, was a good idea.

One morning, when both of our husbands had gone to work, the little princess phone on the table at the end of the couch rang.  I left off washing dishes, and went into the living room.  I grabbed the receiver on the third ring, and dropped onto the gold-and-brown, plush couch.

“Hello?” I asked, slightly breathless from hurrying.

“Hey.”  It was my sister’s voice, and she sounded like she was in a good mood.

I sank back on the couch cushions, relaxing.  My eyes scanned the corner knick-knack shelf, where a collection of small statues of Jesus and Mary, interspersed with various colorful prayer cards, filled three of the four small, triangular shelves.  I smiled; I was in a good mood, too.

“Hey, yerself,” I replied.  “G’mornin’.  What’s up?”

“Mornin’,” she said.  “How ‘bout’cha come down, an’ I’ll perm yer hair?”

“Y’ know how?” I asked, intrigued, but dubious.  My dark hair fell to the small of my back in slight waves, and was incredibly thick.  Perming it was prohibitively expensive at the local beauty shops.

“Yeah,” she assured me, sounding confident.  “Got all the stuff right here.”

“Okay, cool,” I agreed.  “Be down in a few.”

We hung up.  I quickly finished the few dishes left in the sink, stacking plates, bowls, and glasses in the white, wire draining rack.  I changed out of the nightgown I’d been wearing for my morning chores, and put on a pair of purple gym shorts and a white t-shirt with a large, pink unicorn’s head printed on it.  Not bothering with shoes, I grabbed my keys, quickly dipped my fingers in the small bowl of holy water that was nestled among the statues, made the sign of the cross, and asked Jesus and Mary to guard the apartment while I was gone.  Then I left the tiny, three-room apartment, locked the old, white, wooden door, and went down the worn, wooden stairs, the wood of the treads smooth beneath my bare feet, from many years of passing feet. 

At the foot of the stairs, I knocked twice on another wooden door, the twin to my own, turned the smooth, brass knob, and walked in.

“Penny?” I called, stepping into the large dining room.  Penny and her husband had the entire first floor of the converted, old house, so their apartment was twice the size of ours.  The door she used most opened into her dining room; her living room was on the other side of the common entry hall, at the foot of the stairs, but they didn’t use that door.

“Comin’,” Penny’s voice came from the other side of the apartment.  A moment later, she stepped out of the small den, which connected the dining room to the living room.  She wore a pair of dark rose capri pants and a floral-print, cotton, button-front shirt, untucked.  Like me, she was barefoot.  Her hair, naturally curly, and naturally a shade of brown just lighter than mine, was a cloud of brassy auburn curls around her face and shoulders.

“Hi!” I said, dropping my keys on the table.  “Kitchen?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, grinning.  “All set up fer ya.”

We both went into the kitchen, where Penny pulled two cans of Diet Coke out of the fridge.  She popped both tabs, and handed one to me, still hissing with vented carbonation.  I took a sip, and then dropped into the chair that was set in front of the sink.

“Thanks,” I said, and took a longer sip.

“Welcome,” she replied, taking a long drink from her own can.  “Gotta put in some stuff first,” she added, wrapping a large, worn beach towel around my shoulders, under my hair, and pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

“Okay,” I agreed, trustingly.  I hadn’t had a perm since I was a little kid, when our grandmother had taken me to a beauty shop every few weeks to keep curls in my hair.  I didn’t remember what was involved, aside from washing my hair, putting in rollers, sitting under the dryer, and the tang of chemicals in my nose.

For the next ten or 15 minutes, Penny worked some sort of chemical into my hair, starting at my forehead, with my blunt-cut bangs, and working her way to the ends of my long, dark hair.  While she worked, we didn’t talk; country music played on the AM/FM radio on the counter next to the sink, and she sang along to songs that were mostly unfamiliar to me.  When she finished, she coiled my damp, sticky hair atop my head, and wrapped the beach towel around my hair like a huge, absurd turban.

“Gotta let that set,” she said, turning the knob on a timer to 45 minutes.  “Wanna play Uno while we wait, or jus’ talk?”

“Jus’ talk, I guess,” I replied, carefully moving to the table under the kitchen window, which overlooked the gravel parking area our building shared with the next building.  Across the way, on a second-floor landing, I noticed one of my husband’s friends, Jimmy, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, his sleeveless, dirty-white undershirt hanging loosely over the tops of his faded, jeans, which had ragged holes in both knees.  He leaned on the wooden railing, looking around the area; when he saw us at the window, he smiled and waved.  We both waved back.

“Whadda we talk about,” Penny asked, bringing fresh cans of Diet Coke and a bag of Doritos to the table.

“I dunno,” I admitted.  “Whatcha been up to?”

“Not much,” she said.  “I spent all day doin’ laundry yesterday.  Came home with three full baskets.”

“Ugh,” I sympathized.  “Laundromat’s not a fun day.”

“Uh, uh,” she grunted, grabbing a handful of the cheesy, orange chips.

For several minutes, we munched chips and drank our sodas.  When Penny got up to drop the empty cans in the returns bag, and grab more from the fridge, I glanced out the window again, as I had done every couple of minutes.  I grimaced.

“Why’s Jimmy keep starin’ over here?” I grumbled.

“Always does, if I’m near the window,” Penny replied, pausing to look at the quietly ticking timer.

“Hmph,” I snorted, purposely looking away from the window.  “How long?”

“’Nother half hour,” Penny said.  “Cribbage?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

She brought the cards and cribbage board to the table, and we started to play.  The minutes passed quickly, as the pegs moved around the board.  We didn’t speak, except when we counted points.  Before I knew it, the timer went off, startling us both with its raucous jangle.

“We can finish after,” Penny said, dropping her cards face down on the table.  I followed her lead.

Penny unwrapped my head, and then washed the chemicals out of my hair in the kitchen sink.  I stood, bent forward over the sink, holding a dry washcloth over my sensitive eyes to keep the chemicals out of them.  When she was satisfied, Penny worked another substance through my hair.  This one smelled a lot nicer than the other one: coconut, instead of the acrid tang.

“Got time fer a couple more hands,” Penny said, after rewrapping my head.  She set the timer for ten minutes.

When the timer jangled again, it was time for another rinsing over the sink.  This time, when we finished rinsing, she pressed my back into the chair in front of the sink.  She was grinning, her ice-blue eyes twinkling.

“Now, the fun part,” she said.

She toweled my hair mostly dry, and then took a long time working a comb through it.  My hair was a nightmare to untangle when it was wet, and was bad enough to brush smooth when it was dr.  She was persistent, though, and finally got it smooth.

Next, she pulled out a blue, plastic vanity box, and opened it, revealing a pile of large, pink, plastic hair rollers, and shiny, silvery alligator clips.  She sang along with the country radio station, as she’d been doing ever since she started rinsing my hair.  I sat still, trying to be calm, and to trust my sister, but something seemed odd.  I couldn’t tell what it was, so I just went along, listening to the music, while she rolled my hair, securing each roller with an alligator clip.

“There,” Penny said, sounding triumphant, as she clipped the last roller in place.  “Now the settin’ stuff,” she added, beginning to spray another chemical on my head.  This one had a harsh, ammoniac odor, which tickled my nose in an unpleasant way.  My scalp started tingling.  I started to doubt the wisdom of letting my sister perm my hair, but it was far too late to stop her.

When she was done spraying, Penny wrapped my head up again.  We returned to the cards, as the timer ticked off another 20 minutes.  Concentrating on the cards was harder, with my scalp tingling and burning, but we finished the first game, and started another.  Finally, the timer went off.

We went back to the chair by the sink, and Penny removed the towel from my head.  There was no rinsing, this time.  Instead, she plugged in a large, white, hand-held, gun-shaped hair dryer, and started blowing hot air on my rolled-up hair.  The tingling turned to itching, and the burning felt tight.  She blew hot air on my head until all my hair was completely dry, and then a bit more, for good measure.  My ears were filled with the roar of the blower, and I couldn’t hear the radio.  Penny could, evidently, since I saw her lips moving, as she sang along to the music.  Finally, she switched off the blower, put it on the counter, in front of the radio, and pulled the plug from the outlet.

“Let’s take it down,” she chirped, entirely too cheerfully.  I frowned.  Penny never chirped, unless she was about to lie her way out of trouble.

The alligator clips and plastic rollers dropped into the plastic vanity box with a rattle, and a small pile of small, reddish tissue squared mounded up on the edge of the sink, in front of me.

“Why’re they red?” I asked, gesturing at the squares.

“’Cause yer hair’s red,” Penny chirped.

“Uh … why’s it red?” I asked, nervously.

“’Cause I colored it, ‘fore I permed it,” she replied, a slight hitch of anxiety in her voice.

“You what?” I demanded.

“I … uh … thought’ch’d look better with red hair,” she replied, continuing to unroll my hair.

“Aren’tcha ‘sposed’ta do those a couple weeks apart?” I asked, fairly certain I was right.

“Well, yeah, but I thought I’d do ‘em both t’gether,” she said, a defiant edge to her voice now.

“Oh, crap,” I muttered, sure that had been a terrible mistake.

A few minutes later, Penny started brushing out my hair.  It crackled drily under the brush, and it was a frizzy mess.  It was as dry as straw, and simply wouldn’t be smooth.  The brush filled with pinkish hair, as the dry, brittle hair broke off at random. 

Finally, I got frustrated.  Pushing her hands away, I walked into the bathroom, which opened off the kitchen.  I switched on the light, and looked at my reflection in the mirror.  The glare of the bare, incandescent bulb in the middle of the ceiling showed my face, surrounded by pinkish-tan straw, which stood out from my head in a wild, non-curly mass.  I groaned, and tears welled in my eyes.  My hair was my best feature, and now it was ruined.

I didn’t bother yelling at Penny.  I rushed through the kitchen to the dining room, snatched my keys off the table, and slammed the door behind me as I left.  The slam rattled all the doors in the three-story entry.  I ran up the stairs, fumbled with the lock, and then entered my own apartment.  I flicked the deadbolt closed, and rushed into my own bathroom.

I was frantically working conditioner into my hastily dampened hair, when I heard the apartment door open and close.  Penny had a key to my apartment, just as I had a key to hers.  It was what sisters do.

“Deb?” she called, sounding abashed.

“What?” I replied, grudgingly.

Her bare feet padded quietly across the worn, hardwood flooring, as she walked through the living room and bedroom, stopping in the bathroom doorway.

“Sorry?” she offered.

“Right,” I muttered.

“Lemme help?”

“Uh, uh.”

She sat on the foot of the bed, where she could still see me, in front of the bathroom’s chipped, white, porcelain sink, with its verdigrised pipes exposed below the basin.  I ignored her, carefully working the conditioner all through my hair.  Finally, I bent over the sink, rinsing my hair under the running water, using a plastic cup to rinse the parts the tap couldn’t reach.  I repeated the process three more times, and she sat, silently watching, the whole time.  Finally, I gently toweled it off, and left it hanging, damp and tangled, to dry naturally.

Penny followed me into the kitchen, and sat down in a chair that was directly above her chair in her own kitchen.  Not saying a word, I put bread, mustard, and a large deli package of sliced bologna, wrapped in white paper, on the table.  I got two cans of Diet Coke from the fridge, while she started making sandwiches.  I popped the tabs, and set one in front of her.  She glanced at it, and nodded thanks.

Halfway through our second round of bologna sandwiches, Penny spoke.  “Think it’s okay?”

“Hope so, I replied.  I sipped my soda.

We finished our sandwiches, put the food back in the fridge, and sat at the table.

After a long silence, Penny said, “Jimmy’s gone.”

I glanced out the window.  The landing on the opposite building was empty.  I looked down into the gravel lot.  “His car, too,” I replied.  “Musta gone t’ work.”

“Musta,” she agreed.  Jimmy worked second shift at the same plant where our husbands worked first shift.  Despite his grungy morning appearance, he was a decent guy.

Finally, my hair was dry.  It was still pink, and oddly frizzy, but it wasn’t as fragile as it had been after the perm.  For the next three weeks, I kept it pulled back in a braid, which made its sad condition less noticeable.  When the texture finally started returning to normal, I dyed it back to my natural, dark brown.

I haven’t had a perm in all the 20 plus years since then.

 

Author's Note

Please let me know if you find typos; it helps me. Initial reactions and constructive criticism welcome.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

'The alligator clips and plastic rollers dropped into the plastic vanity box with a rattle, and a small pile of small, reddish tissue squared mounded up on the edge of the sink, in front of me.

“Why’re they red?” I asked, gesturing at the squares.

“’Cause yer hair’s red,” Penny chirped.

“Uh … why’s it red?” I asked, nervously.

“’Cause I colored it, ‘fore ... ' .. .. ..

Read slowly, didn't find any typos.. BUT did find a lot of smiles, then... groans. Then oh then,, my own disgusting curse at the dye and perm marriage!!

How you managed to rush calmly home, sort best you could.. survive a friendship with your sister.. and live to tell the wonderful tale, i don't know. And I have sisters!!

You have a fine eye and ear for language.. ramble a little at times, use non essential bits.. but generally i take off my invisible hat to you for such an amusing, terrifying piece of writing. Deserves far more reads.

[Debbie Barry]

Thanks, Emma! I'm really glad you liked it. It was a miserable day, but funny to laugh about, all these years later.

I know I ramble a little, sometimes. My mind sees so many details, and wants to get everything in. It's a failing, but I can live with it.

Thanks for the wonderful review!

[emmajoy]

I loved your tale, very well written.. but just added the fambling as a minor PS. I could win gold medals for the UK for rambling! :) Was a pleasure to read your tale, even tho horrific in parts! :)

[barleygirl]

Thank you for read requesting me on this, Emmajoy, becuz I loved it! *smile*

[Debbie Barry]

Emma, thanks! And thanksfor sending out read requests! (((hugs)))

[Debbie Barry]

Thanks, Barleygirl! I'm really glad you enjoyed it!

[barleygirl]

Thanks to emmajoy for read requesting me on this story . . . The mechanics of your storytelling are top notch. I love the way you structure your dialogue & description in a flowing way so we are getting to know your characters & setting little by little without plowing thru long paragraphs of expository writing. Since my mom was a hairdresser for 50+ years & I had too many perms to count, I was wondering the whole time about the sequence of these treatments, & finally I got the answer later on (color & perm). My mom called those "pocket curls" (when hair breaks off & hairdresser puts curler & hair all stuck together & into her pocket so the patron would not see). All in all, your details are good for this procedure. Excellent details all along. I just don't know if Jimmy has a meaningful place in this story . . . just kinda hanging out there with no reason for his existence!?!?! This story makes me want to tell my own story of having a radical curly perm the night before my first school pictures. I was devastated by my new afro! All in all, excellent writing & fun storytelling (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Debbie Barry]

Thanks, Margie! (((hugs))) I'm really glad you enjoyed it, and I appreciate the analysis. That's helpful. No, Jimmy was just a time filler this time, like the cards and food. He was part of the original events in that way. Just a topic to talk about. If I tell more stories from that period, he'll show up again.

I'd love to read your afro story! I managed to avoid those, but the Shirley Temple curls of early childhood were followed by two years with a mushroom cut. It still makes me shudder.