At 17, I was 10 feet tall, full of myself and brimming over with the confidence of Delilah.
Having just graduated from Beauty School, I was starry eyed and ready to conqueror
the world. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t do. Atlanta showgirls would saunter into the
school with long hair sashaying down their backs. Beehives and bouffants were carefully
sculptured and twirled as high as I could make them. Unadulterated lacquer was used
to cement their finished product. Bedecked by jeweled combs, rhinestone pins and
scarves, buildings could topple and be blown away before those styles would.
We had to learn finger waves, clip waves, shaping hair with a razor and scissors, proper
rolling techniques, the right and wrong way to back comb (it was very unprofessional to
say “teasing”), bleaching, tinting and permanents, facials, manicures and pedicures
and so much more. There were practical and written tests every week. You also learned
the right products to use for the different services. Although, we had a huge variety of
inventory to work with, it is nothing compared to what is offered today. In our modern
times we use plastic clips, plastic rollers, plastic bottles, plastic perm rods and plastic
bags. Is this to say, we are a plastic generation?
We wore crisp white uniforms, white support shoes with support stockings. Most girls
practiced on each other and would go out the door looking different every evening.
Some were more daring than others. I waited till I graduated and took the state board
to cut my hair and have it bleached out Platinum White. With my hair so light I was
able to play with it and would put high fashioned beige and pink toners on it all of the
time.
This was the era of Woodstock, Motown, Elvis, Chubby Checker, President Kennedy
getting assassinated and a visit from the Beatles to the states. We drank vanilla and
cherry cokes with peanuts inside of them, wore saddle shoes with bobby socks and only
bad girls pierced their ears and got caught smoking in the school bathroom. We would
wear pink lipstick and a daring touch of blue eye shadow.
The smell of bacon would travel through the air as I caught a trolley
in the mornings to go down town. Atlanta, Ga. was an exciting place
to be. A parade of the movie stars of Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh
and the others in “Gone with the Wind” had happened there. We
would pass old antebellum homes reminiscing from another time.
Always an incurable romantic I would dream of being dressed in the
old southern lace dresses with miles of petticoats gathered
underneath. Having my hair fancied up in curls I would fan myself
while trying to keep cool from the Georgia heat. I’d sit on one of
those large verandas smelling the honeysuckle and talk about all my
beaus who wanted my hand for marriage. Then, I’d promptly turn them all down, just to
see which ones wouldn’t give up on me. My whimsical imagination would paint a story
as we rolled by the century old homes.
I soon found this day was going to be unlike any other in school. Little did I know my
unwavering assurance of hair was about to be crushed. About a quarter into my
schooling I was ready to give my first permanent. Called up front to receive my lady for
her chemical treatment I seated and draped her, then examined her hair. Her hair
looked like overly tinted hair to me, but she told me it wasn’t tinted. Back then, we had
the cold wave with splash on neutralizers. The cold wave revolutionized the whole
beauty industry. Discovery was being made every year to improve the quality of the
perms. I went through the whole procedure of giving my patron her perm, then followed
by rolling her hair the way she had instructed me. As I began removing her rollers she
metamorphosed into a reptilian character (I didn’t realize some women have fangs)
and snatched her rollers from her hair and began propelling them across the room.
With such rage, I was glad she didn’t have a gun. I couldn’t understand her anger or
what I had done to cause this. Screaming, she seized the brush from my hand. Her
other hand was motioning on her forehead the wave she demanded to have there. I
didn’t have to seek an instructor for help as the uproar caused everyone to stop what
they were doing and see what was wrong. When the instructor came and began to talk
to her and comb her hair I flew crying into the cloakroom. Venomous threats spat from
her about how she was going to sue the school for me ruining her hair.
