The summer before I started high school,

I wanted a hair style that would make me look cool.

My mom heard of a salon only two hours away.

(It was 1984. Google reviews could not save the day.)

Mom drove our station wagon, her purse in her lap.

Granny rode shotgun, and I read the map.

We arrived at the hairdresser’s in record time;

my appointment was scheduled for just half past nine.

The process was lengthy, the solution…it smelled;

but I couldn’t shake from my vision the image I held.

Farrah-like curls or Jacklyn Smith’s wavy tresses…

a style that would complement blue jeans or dresses.

After setting the rods, the stylist vacated the room.

My scalp started burning, a forewarning of doom.

My eyes watered profusely. My nose became runny.

The smell from my head was not one bit funny.

Should I go for help? I was alone in the chair.

I could tell something was not at all right with my hair.

When the buzzer went off and the stylist returned,

it became very clear that my hair had been burned.

There were no Angel ringlets, no waves, no curl…

just tight frizzled corkscrews, fit for no girl.

I cried on the spot, sobs I couldn’t contain.

The stylist grew angry as my tears flowed like rain.

“This isn’t my fault!” she said with a glare.

Mom and Granny could do nothing but stare.

We left the salon and piled back in the car.

I bawled for two hours. That ride felt so far.

Our neighbor had scissors and some sense of style.

She snipped and she feathered for quite a long while.

My hair fell around me. My dreams turned to ire.

The pixie cut had gone out at least ten years prior.

“It looks fine,” said my mom. “You know it grows back.”

I wanted to cover my head with a brown paper sack.

High school would begin and I’d have to be brave.

and suffer the fallout of a Permanent Wave.