First professional jobs are etched in everyone’s mind - whether the memories are
sweet, exciting or sad. One of my first places of employment was at a home salon, on
the beach. My employer, who had a daughter owned a restaurant also. When I wasn’t
busy in the salon I helped her out at the restaurant or watched her daughter for her. I
liked the variety and was given a small apartment in the back of the salon.
Just to be able to have a job on my favorite beach was an all time high for a
teenager. I was always on the beach when I wasn’t working and had friends everywhere.
My employer, whom I’ll call “Martha” was a mature woman from that great state of
Alabama. She could save money and cut corners in ways I’d never seen before. A good
example: after I gave a permanent, I was told to rinse out the perm papers and lay
them out to dry. In this way, we could use them for a couple more chemical processes.
We also saved all perm applicator bottles and had what seemed to be hundreds in the
store room. I still don’t quite understand the reasoning of accumulating all that plastic.
I’m sure Martha knew though. Her shop was a beachy little salon that would make the
movie “Steel Magnolia’s” move over and make way for “Martha’s Coifs on the Beach.”
We serviced everyone who came in: from the beach bunnies to the hippies, old or
young. We had fun.
Martha was not without her problems of the heart though, and one day she wanted
me to ride with her somewhere in the mountains so she could seek a seer and ask him
for advice. The night was like charcoal as we sped along the highway. I couldn’t tell
where we were going. It seemed like forever before we drove up a long winding driveway
that led to an old cabin. I stayed in the car as she quickly walked up to the shack. I saw
a kerosene lamp in the window and smoke colored sky as it rose from a chimney. Now,
as I think about this, I’m sure she was seeking advice from a witch. She was given
some sort of potion used to cast spells. I know she was involved with a much younger
man, but I’m not sure that had anything to do with the trip.
Martha had a lot of energy and was very fair and good to me. I had a taste of
drawing from her experience. She seemed to take things in her stride when it came to
hair, especially her hair. She had very highly flammable bleached blonde hair that
looked and felt just like a bale of hay. As she told me,
“I love being a blonde”
I would touch up her new growth as she penciled in her very thin eyebrows. I’d
watch her ruby red lips talk to me, I could not help but imagine her nostrils as eyes.
Yes, I still have a very vivid imagination, but don’t do that anymore.
This particular day was to be an unusual day for me, filled with “shock and awe.”
Martha wanted me to give her a permanent. With hair like Martha’s you just “don’t go
there.” But, I knew she had permanents before, over her hair. That was one reason her
hair was so unbelievably dry. I just didn’t want to be the next one to do this to her.
Highly bleached hair and permanents do not mix. Even today I hesitate, warn and
counsel about the hazard of such a process. No matter how good the permanent boasts
of being full of vitamins, moisture and protein I’m still very cautious. Martha insisted
that I give her a perm. Remember, all we had back then, were cold waves full of
ammonia. Our conversation went something like this:
“I would rather not give you a perm because of your highly bleached hair.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, it will be fine.”
“But, your hair could break and fall off.” I knew in my heart this would happen.
“Oh, I don’t mind losing a little hair.”
