Hairror Stories

Hairror Stories

Hair, a woman’s crowning glory, or in my case, the bane of my existence.

At the time of my birth I was as bald as an egg. Being a bit premature in my arrival my body was covered with downy soft hair known as lanugo. As expected, it all fell out within a week but mysteriously reappeared on top of my head a few weeks later.  No one could have guessed that the growth of baby fine, bone straight hair that was to be mine would fill my life with trauma and drama.

Age 5 - Home perm

To this day the name Tony sends shivers down my spine. Perhaps, my grabbing the barrel end of a curling iron prompted my mother to subject me to the horrors of the home permanent.
The solution burned my scalp. Unrelenting ammonia-like fumes assaulted my senses and lingered for days. Meanwhile the permanent rod’s evil, sharp teeth poked through the protective paper to grab strands of hair, tying them in little knots and holding on with a death grip. Unrolling the perm was as grueling an experience as the application, it just took longer. However the process was not nearly as horrific as the results. Curls so tight they defied the laws of physics. Thousands of curls, hundreds of which had inexplicably straight ends: giving the appearance they were trying to escape the carpet of curls on top of my head. Think Don King’s hair on crack. \cc//c/c/cc\\c/c\cc/\c//cc/\cc\          

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Age 13 – The Sassoon

1964. Vidal Sassoon was king of the modern hair style since the introduction of his asymmetrical bob. I wanted that hairdo so badly I finally broke down and asked my mother to cut it: the very woman that had been terrorizing my three brothers for years with ancient clippers. Clippers that over time had stopped cutting the hair and simply started ripping it out.

“No Dinky, I don’t want to cut your hair. You always hate the haircuts I give you.”

“Pleassssssssssse mom, I swear I will like it this time. It’s so easy: blunt cut just below the ear on one side, angled on the other side, ending in a point about chin length, and just short in the back. I promise I will like it.”

I had complete confidence in her. That is until she turned the clippers on and I realized she was cutting the back all the way up to my crown.

“Stop! Stop! Stop mom!”

Too late. Although one side was blunt cut, it was well above my ear. The other side did end in an angled point but unfortunately was pointing at my eyebrow instead of my chin. I was already a stick figure of a girl and now I looked like a boy! For the next eighteen months giant, dangle earrings were worn at all times in an effort to help people discern my gender. It was the last time my mother ever touched my hair.

Age 17 – The Pony Tale

It had been four years since the nightmare of the Sassoon, and I had vowed to never cut my hair again. My hair had grown at glacier speed, now almost touching my shoulders but refusing to go beyond that point. Silk pillowcases, protective turbans and frequent trimming of split ends, yet it hovered there still.

I became convinced of the existence of microscopic hair chomping monsters living on my shoulders. Perhaps these critters were unable to climb above my shoulders due to the lack of legs or inability to survive higher altitudes. At any rate I knew they visited me each night, feasting on a banquet of any hair that approached my shoulders. There was no other logical explanation.

The ponytail was king, sported by nine out of ten girls in my high school. Ponytails, held in various positions by a heavy leather strip and wooden stick. My hair was so fine it couldn’t even hold a lightweight bobby pin much less a half pound of cowhide and lumber.
In an effort to make it stay in place I would twist my hair a few times and then weave the stick through that little knot. Much to my delight it actually worked. The twisting made my ponytail a fraction shorter but at least it prevented it from slipping out. I could now blend in with all the other girls. Or so I thought.

After months of bliss and the purchase of dozens of those leather strips and wooden sticks my best friend would shatter my happy little world. My world, my ponytail, my investment, and my desire to conform all ceased to exist with the utterance of less than a dozen words.  “I’m not sure the George Washington look is working for you.”

Age 20 – The Afro

Upon the sudden death of my ponytail the phantom of the page boy returned.  A hairdo with no hint of a wave, a cowlick, or any other device to disturb the uniform perpendicular lines my hair insisted on taking. Shades of Prince Valant and Dutch Boy paint. I started to curl it.

Early versions were vilified by my father as Little Orphan Annie Gone Mad. No matter. Like a junkie, I was in a downward spiral, needing more and more each day. Smaller and smaller curlers were my gateway, eventually leading to pin curls and at the lowest point I had returned to my childhood nemesis: the evil permanent rod. The abused had now become the abuser. I had moved beyond wave, beyond curl, beyond coil and had happily arrived at my destination: Nappy.


I remember the euphoria of standing next to a group of soul sisters in a disco restroom, forking my golden afro. I pretended not to notice them staring and continued primping, and in the process, coating the sink with dozens of itty bitty semi circles of hair. Hair so fragile and bent out of shape the slightest pressure would cause it to snap.

Curiosity overtook the need to be nonchalant and one of them finally spoke:
“Is that your real hair, girl?”

Grabbing the front of my hair and pulling it upwards to show that indeed each hair was growing from my scalp, I responded with my best black girl impersonation;
“Well, it sho aint yo’s now is it?”

Let’s just say that was a mistake and leave it at that.

In spite of the incident I loved all the attention that hairdo brought. However, the constant breakage eventually left me with nothing but whiskers throughout my crown, and thus the end of my nappy days. I miss them still.

Age 24 – The Home Salon and the Master Stylist

Part 1

Hair decisions made during a visit to North Carolina in 1975 must have been the result of postpartum dementia. It was that or demonic possession. No other explanations could account for the reckless actions that would haunt life for the next two years.

We were returning to the place of my husband’s birth: a rural area, eerily reminiscent of a Stephen King novel. A population density of twenty-five people per square mile combined with the claustrophobic effect of being surrounded by impenetrable forests of Loblolly pine filled me with an unnamed sense of foreboding. 

“Why am I dragging seventy-five pounds two thousand miles to a place that frightens the piglets out of me? I know. I know. Family.”

They wanted to see the beautiful boy; eight-months old and a healthy fifteen pounds. The other sixty pounds was packed onto my frighteningly expanding hips.

His sister Cathy, twenty years his senior and a licensed beautician, lived in a sixties style brick farmhouse. A complete salon, with a private entrance had been added and she insisted I come in and have a seat.

“Little brother says you have been down lately. I can see why. Don’t you worry about it darling. A little color and a little curl will make a new woman out of you.”

Suddenly rendered mute, I was unable to defend myself. The nightmare began. By the end of the day I had the ghostly curls of my childhood but with a frightful twist. Blood red curls, wound so tightly they could not be coaxed more than a half inch above my scalp.  I had been transformed into a Curly-Coated Retriever. What a bitch.

Part 2

Several months after returning to the Mile High City I had finally found the courage to seek help. Life as a dog had to end. The color had slowly changed, like real blood, from a bright red into a deep red/purple color. To make matters worse, the uncanny straight ends from my childhood perms had reappeared at the end of each curl.

I asked around and finally called the most expensive and exclusive salon in the metro area.

“La Hentarica, may I help you?”

“Yes, 911 service please. I have a hair emergency.”

“Would you like a stylist or a master stylist?”

“Oh, I need a lot of help, so make it a master.”

“John had a cancellation and will be able to see you this afternoon.”

My luck was changing, help was at hand.

Upon entering I found myself in a waiting area unable to view the rest of the salon. What a relief: there would be no public viewing of the drastic measures needed to transform this mess into something that actually resembled hair. A small, ornate desk sat in the far corner and was occupied by an angelic looking girl. Professional that she was, she managed to immediately hide her shock at the sight of me.

She asked in that barely audible yet lilting voice I recognized from our phone conversation, “May I help you?”
“I have an appointment with John at two o’clock”
“Yes, of course you do. Please have a seat.” She then pressed a button and softly announced for all to hear, “John, your client is here. John.”

As I turned to find a seat I noticed the other women in the room. Not quite women: girls, young girls, young beautiful girls, young beautiful blond girls, peppered all over the room. I took a seat, feeling old and fat at the tender age of twenty-four.

Suddenly, through heavy velvet drapes burst a slip of a man: five feet five inches tall at the most, a living, breathing caricature of the stereotypical gay hairdresser.

“Diane? Diane?” He repeated it, each time making eye contact with one of the beauties, somehow managing to overlook me. Finally, I raised my hand ever so slightly, and waved it side to side.

His eyes wide and both hands instantaneously and audibly slapping his cheeks he exclaimed, “What happened to your hair?”

I quickly responded. “I was in a car accident and my hair caught fire.”

He squealed in horror, hands still clinging to his cheeks, “Oh no!”

Feeling all the eyes in the room drilling little holes right through me I could manage but a whisper, “I was joking.”

He approached me, reached out and started gingerly lifting pieces of my hair and letting them drop. Meanwhile, in a voice filled with a mixture of dismay and outrage, he repeated, “This is sooooo sad!. This is soooo sad! This is tooooooo sad. I can’t do this!”

He turned and with short staccato steps left the room repeating the refrain “I can’t. I can’t. I just can’t!”

My cheeks flush with humiliation, praying the floor would open and swallow me. The receptionist, feeling my pain, approached, leaned in close and whispered, “Would you like me to get someone else to work on you?”

I could only manage a small nod. She disappeared behind the heavy drapes, returning within seconds to inform me Carol would be with me shortly.

Suddenly, my mirror image appeared before my eyes, except the hair was blond. Wait. There is no mirror, it is Carol. She took my hand and said softly as she led me to her station, “I know exactly what you are going through.” I knew it was the truth.

Age 52 – Something’s Caughtin in Denmark

Over time, my poor hair recovered. The rest of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s flew by. Of course there was the regular but minor hair disaster. I had learned to roll with the punches: I had survived. Hair would never defeat me again. Or so I thought.

2003. We had just arrived in Copenhagen, Denmark, now home to our oldest son. He was to be married in ten days and we had spoken to, but not yet met his bride. We would be staying at their apartment until we all traveled to her childhood home, somewhere in the Danish countryside.

I had lived in humid climates before and knew no curl of mine could survive in the city of rain. What to do? I bought a tube of super max gel, guaranteed to hold the curl until you wash it out. I had brought it with me, still untried, and my trusty blow dryer/curling brush. I had even brought an adapter so my plug would fit in their outlets. I was all set.
Much to my dismay I discovered shortly after arrival I also needed a converter; I would have to use their blow dryer and a brush. Ok, no worries.

Day two, my son and his fiancé were going shopping and leaving us to our own devises. After my shower I grabbed my gel, their hair dryer, and my daughter’s round plastic bristle brush. I applied the gel to my wet hair as Oscar Wilde’s words echoed in my head: “Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.”

Normally, the hair fixing thing was one handed, with the other hand used to smooth, coax, and guide my pathetic hair around the dryer brush. I hesitated for just a few seconds, asking myself, “How will you do this? One hand for the dryer, one hand for the brush. You need another hand.”  Perhaps the release button on my dryer/brush had made me careless: pressing the button would allow the barrel to rotate and release the curl. For whatever reason, I did not heed my own warning.

I horizontally parted the hair on the side of my head, pinning the top portion out of the way. The comb was particularly difficult to drag though my hair because of the gel. Thinking at the time this is what it must be like for people with real hair. I then grabbed the dryer in one hand and the round brush in the other and proceed to roll my hair around the brush and blow it dry. Then I tried to unroll it. It was not moving. I set down the dryer and tried with two hands.

I had been here before, now all I needed to do was grab a few strands at a time and pull, coax, wiggle out of the grasp of the teeth. However, the gel had rendered my hair into a seamless mass that simply refused to separate. I struggled for the next thirty minutes, using everything within my grasp, hair pin, toothpick, fork, but nothing was working.

My daughter approached and offered assistance, but was equally unsuccessful. The brush was plastered to the side of my head, wound all the way to the roots.

My younger son, the mechanical wizard, stepped up to the plate.
“If I can untie knots in fine gold chains, I can get your hair out of that brush.”

Fifteen minutes later, with each hair still firmly wound around the brush, he admitted failure.

My frustration was growing exponentially and my inner sailor had taken over. This fruitless struggle had been going on for more than an hour and was now accompanied by an endless stream of expletives.

It was obvious by the looks on their faces, my son and his fiancé had heard every word as they climbed the five flights of stairs to their apartment. I was horrified by that realization. This girl did not even know me and there I was ranting and raving, brush stuck to the side of my head, subjecting her neighbors to an unsolicited, post graduate course in American Profanity.

My son, being the family genius, knew he could solve the problem. His high IQ did not impress my gel laden hair and it remained unyielding.

Next up: my future daughter in law. If sweetness of temperament could have moved my hair she might have a chance. I sat still, showing no signs of the frustration monster railing inside my head. She had tried for more than twenty minutes before she apologized for not being able to extricate a single hair.

I looked at their balcony, picturing myself and this monster brush sailing through the air and crashing to the ground below; finally putting everyone out of my misery.

My husband, maybe misreading my mind, suggested he and I step out onto the balcony and smoke a cigarette.

Once we were out there he too attempted to set my hair free. It took much less time for him to give up the ghost. Then he offered his solution to the problem: cut it out.
Yes! Yes! After more than an hour and a half we were all ready to cut it out.

First they cut the bristles down to my hair, but still nothing moved. I insisted they cut the hair between the bristles as that would surely work. My hair would be much shorter but at least I would be free of the brush. Cut after cut, row after row, and still the brush would not budge. Finally, in desperation, I told my husband to just slip the scissors between my scalp and the brush and cut before I jumped. Sounded simple but alas, it was not. There was no room between my scalp and the brush; the scissors simply would not fit.

Enter the bride to be, with an answer to all of our prayers, an exacto knife. 
We succeeded in extracting the brush from the side of my head. One by one each hair was razored away from my scalp. The brush, never the less retained its tenacious hold on the hair.

The carcass of that satanically possessed brush was discarded without ceremony, along with every hair that had previously grown in a three inch radius of my ear.

In more than fifty years I had never won the battle with my hair, but that was about to change.

Two weeks later, as our plane touched down, I thought of my Danish discovery and breathed a sigh of contentment. I knew I had found my hair’s Kryptonite, the war was finally over.

The Pixie cut would never be allowed to grow out.

Vidal Sassoon is quoted “Hair is nature's biggest compliment and the treatment of this compliment is in our hands.” It seems, in my case, hair is nature’s ongoing practical joke.  From my point of view, it’s just not very funny.