Real Pals~Part One free porn video

REAL PALS by Ginny Wolf Growing up in the 1950's, that supposedly "traditional family" decade, I was one of a number of young boys who were recipients of a great variety of hair curling procedures, including permanent waves. In addition to receiving home permanents, I often spent hours after school, on the weekends, or going to bed in the evenings, with my hair set in pin curls, or with clips or on rollers. It was not unusual for mom, my sisters and me to be around the house with our set hair covered with hairnets and sometimes those frilly sleep caps. From the time I was about five years old until I turned thirteen, I underwent perming and setting on a regular basis. The most unforgettable of those permanents led me and my best friend, a guy who was a real pal, to an even stranger experience. My mom experimented on me with a great variety of "little girl" permanents, youthful versions of adult home perms. I endured having a perm every two to four months, depending upon what type she used on me. Some of the cheaper perms did not last as long as others. My mother was not a hairdresser. She was a traditional "stay-at-home" mom, raising two daughters and a son (me-the youngest of the three). My dad worked in heavy construction, traveling all over the U. S., Canada and Mexico. He made very good money which he always sent home. But he was away for long periods of time. Like many women of that decade, mom absolutely loved to experiment with hair, her own, my sisters' hair, mine, my grandmothers', and my aunts' hair as well. In our neighborhood, the culture of beauty meant a lot to women like my mom, my grandmothers and my aunts. Women had permanents in beauty shops, which could be found on every corner, or gave permanents to each other in their homes all the time. Women experimented constantly with cosmetics, perfumes, nail polish, facial creams and other beauty treatments. This was also the time when "hair coloring" ("dye" was becoming a taboo word) was starting to come into common use by more women concerned about a youthful appearance. Not a week went by without somebody- my mother, sisters, aunts or other relatives, friends, grandmothers or neighbors- getting or giving a permanent wave, a new hair style, manicure, pedicure, facial or beauty treatment of some sort at home or in a beauty shop. Having a permanent wave or other beauty treatment was not a casual thing. It was a beauty event that took place regularly and not just on special occasions. Women talked about beauty and fashion, and called each other on the phone. Permanents were extra special, not merely a "perm" but rather a "permanent wave" and not merely something women just did for fun. My mom and her friends and neighbors gave tremendous thought about having a permanent wave. My Aunt Carol was my favorite aunt. She wasn't married yet. She was mom's youngest sister, worked as a nurse in a doctor's office and lived close to us. She was as interested in hair as mom. The two of them read women's magazines by the dozens and were always experimenting with different hair styles. When it was my turn to be permed, Aunt Carol took the lead while my mom helped by passing to Aunt Carol the plastic curler rods and the end papers which my dear aunt wound, very firmly, onto my head. Originally, I was not sure of the reasons why my mother decided to curl my hair. Granted, I was the only male, since dad traveled almost year round, in a house of females, with aunts, grandmothers, and lots of girl cousins around all the time. Mom usually explained that perming and setting were necessary to control my thick and unruly hair. (Looking back at pictures, my hair was long-ish by those standards but lots of new "rock and roll" stars of the late 1950's were starting to make such hair more popular). Being mannerly and polite, I knew better than to refuse anything mom told me to do. Spanking or loss of privileges was just not worth getting angry or resentful. Mom repeatedly said I "needed" a permanent as other youngsters "needed" braces for their teeth or glasses for their eyes. She believed for the longest time that I simply could not go through life unless she permed and styled my hair . Her attitude made me feel that if my hair was not curled, people would think badly of me or that I came from an uncaring and slovenly family. As a result of this particular permanent wave, I eventually learned more about mom's attitude and the whys and wherefores.My mom, my sisters, both of my grandmothers and my Aunt Carol never teased or pestered me about getting a permanent or having my hair set. The women in my life understood the need of privacy and keeping my hair styling a secret from friends. They always helped to make excuses for me about why, at times, I couldn't come out to play or go to a friend's house, to the movies or to a ball game. Aunt Carol created several basic hairstyles for me to wear. They were modified girl styles, which fit me and looked quite natural, and, other than having longer hair than most boys in my age group, nothing much was said. She cut and trimmed my hair at home. The down side, of course, was that a haircut meant I'd be going to bed in curlers and a hairnet or, worse, the time was at hand soon for another permanent wave session. With curls, I never had to carry a comb at school, and when taking off my hat or ball cap, my hair just sprang into place. The constant routine of hair perming and setting kept the suspicious nature down, with even my closest friends. I remember any number of my teachers (all of them women), neighbor ladies and women at church telling me how luck I was to have such nice "naturally curly" hair. The exception to friends not sharing my secret was my best friend at the time, Tommy Harrison. He was the only child of a well-to-do widow in our neighborhood. He and I attended the same school and the same church and played on the same community baseball team. All of my friends never saw me in curlers or being permed. If they had, I probably would have been teased unmercifully or beaten up or ridiculed to death, and certainly would have been forced to leave my church and my school, if anybody had ever known. But Tommy was my best friend, a real pal. We told each other secrets and pledged to die under torture rather than tell anyone else. I had told Tommy about having permanents and having my hair set periodically. His eyes bugged out and he admitted that he was glad that his mom did not do those things to him. But until that fateful spring day in sixth grade, he had not seen me undergoing that feminine ritual that women and girls went through, having my hair "done" just like my mom and sisters. Tommy was a skinny, somewhat shy kid and I was his best friend, though he got along well with girls because he was smart and though skinny, he could knock a pitch out of the park where we played baseball. He and I also shared interest in puppets. From as far back as I could remember, I had all kinds of puppets-hand puppets, string puppets, sock puppets and just about every other kind imaginable. Tommy and I made puppets, created puppet theaters, wrote scripts, and acted them out. We were never bored. Of course, that interest made us different from most other boys so we were glad to talk to and work with each other. As I said, we were real pals to each other. We had vivid imaginations. Our puppet plays made our mothers, my aunts, sisters and cousins laugh. Our theatrical talents usually got us involved both at school and at church in whatever dramatic productions were being done. He and I played the speaking angel parts in the church Christmas pageant for four years running. The day of the infamous permanent was a rainy Friday at the end of March. I was eleven years old. Tommy and I were in sixth grade, Mrs Foster's class. It was a day off from school because all the teachers were attending some sort of teachers conference. Mom surprised me the night before by telling me that the next morning she and Aunt Carol would give me a permanent wave. Usually, she gave me several days notice in advance, telling me when busy setting me in curlers that my hair was not gripping the rollers properly enough and it was time for another permanent. Or I'd be with her when she purchased a permanent wave kit at the local drug store, to my private embarrassment, because I knew that one was for me, not one of my sisters. This particular time, it was a total shock when mom announced rather casually after supper on Thursday evening that she planned on giving me a permanent the next morning. Like most kids, I had already figured things to do on my day off of school. Tommy and I had talked about being over at his house to work with our puppets, watch television, maybe play catch and have lunch together. When my mom changed my plans for me, I called him and, fearful of telling him the truth, I said that we had to cancel because mom had planned "chores" for me at home. After he pestered me about doing something later on Friday, I said that I'd call him "IF" I got finished early. I knew that wouldn't happen. I was going to spend all day Friday in perm curlers, then in rollers, pins and a hairnet. The perming ritual took place in the kitchen. Mom and Aunt Carol had a high backless chair which they called "the beauty stool." Whoever was having the permanent-mom, aunt, sister, grandmother or me-sat on the beauty stool wearing a big plastic cape, fastened at the back by drawstring and usually a big hair clip as well. Aunt Carol always placed newspaper on the floor under the beauty stool, to catch any spills of the potent perming lotion. This day I was the lucky customer receiving Aunt Carol's beauty ministrations as my mom ably assisted her. In addition to the over-size plastic cape, Aunt Carol had a towel tucked into the cape around my neck. In anticipation of the application of the smelly perm solution, I held another big towel in my lap. Under the cape, I wore a scruffy old shirt, blue jeans and sneakers. As I waited for Aunt Carol to finish winding my hair on the left side of my head, I knew from past experience she only had to do the frontal part of my crown and bangs before I was free for a few minutes, to stand up, briefly walk around and to go to the bathroom. After the short break came the worst part, the terrible application of perming solution. My eyes and nose were already remembering past permanents. I dreaded what was soon to come. I sat quietly as mom handed perm curlers and end papers to Aunt Carol and she finished wrapping the last curlers into my bangs. Suddenly we heard knocking on the front door. My mom went to the front door and found Tommy, who had ridden his bike, in the rain, to my house. He wanted to see me so badly that he said he came to volunteer to help me with my chores so that we could have some time to play. He adamantly declared he could not leave without seeing me and was willing to help me with my chores. When mom told him I could not come out, he said he would wait. He asked again if he could help me do my chores. Telling Tommy to wait in the living room, Mom came back into the kitchen, saying "Well, Peter, what should I do about Tommy?" Bashfully, I admitted that last year I had confided my terrible secret to him and that he had kept faith with me. I felt badly that he biked over in the rain to help me with "chores" and that basically he had no one else to play with him. "Can you stand having him see you like this?" Mom asked, nodding toward my head covered my multiple perm curlers. I blushed and said I wasn't sure. Aunt Carol, always a very wise woman, said, "Let me call Linda." Linda Harrison was Tommy's mom. She, Aunt Carol and my mom, Rita Stowe, were pretty friendly. "If Tommy decides to stay and visit, I have an idea that will guarantee his continuing to keep the secret." Aunt Carol had a sly grin on her face. I did not know at the time what a "conspirator" was. Aunt Carol stepped into the dining room, picked up an extension phone and called Tommy's mom. Neither Tommy in the living room nor I in the kitchen could hear the ten minute conversation. When she came back into the kitchen, she grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Well, Linda says if Tommy wants to stay and watch, that's okay with her. She will make sure that he keeps this secret. So, Peter, do you mind being seen by your best friend while you have your permanent wave?" I felt foolish and embarrassed but also I felt badly for Tommy, little realizing what Mrs Harrison and Aunt Carol had just cooked up. And what that would eventually lead to for me and my real pal. "It's okay, I guess, if he really, really wants to stay. I trust him to keep a secret. But maybe the smell and curlers and stuff will send him home. But if he wants to come in, well let him," I answered. Both mom and Aunt Carol realized that for me, there was nothing more embarrassing than having my closest friend, my best pal seeing me in such a vulnerable, girlish position, receiving a girl's permanent wave. Aunt Carol quickly wrapped a towel around my head in a turban style, covering the curlers all over my head. Aunt Carol went into the living room and told Tommy that "we're doing Peter's hair." She left no doubt that I would not be able to come out the rest of the day. He did not know Aunt Carol very well and asked again to see me. As my aunt led him into the kitchen, he clearly understood what was going on. At once, he could smell the odor of the waving lotion, which mom was getting ready for Aunt Carol to saturate my perm curlers. He recognized the familiar odor of the lotion of somebody getting a permanent. When he saw me as he came into the kitchen, with the towel wrapped around my head, and saw the curlers and other hair styling items on the table, he knew what they were doing to me. He spotted the little girl's "Tonette" home permanent box sitting on the table and fixed his eyes on it. He said with surprise, "Oh, wow, I didn't know you were getting a permanent, Peter! I thought they were just cutting your hair. So this is what you told me about last year? Gosh! Are you okay?" He didn't sound obnoxious or nasty, just genuinely surprised. I just shook my head yes. I blushed a deep red and felt embarrassed, knowing that if he stayed, he would see me undergo the worst parts of the permanent. "Now Tommy," my mom, said, "Peter's Aunt Carol talked to your mother. And I have talked to Peter. You may stay and visit and have lunch with us if you like. After Peter's permanent wave has processed, you two may play here in the house. However, you must promise never to tell anyone about Peter getting a permanent. Is that a deal? Can you do that for your friend? If so, you are welcome to stay." "Yes, Mrs Stowe, I can do that. Peter's my best friend. I never told anyone before and I sure won't now. Thank you, ma'am," Tommy answered. When Aunt Carol took the towel off my head, Tommy eyes widened as he stared at my head covered with perm curlers. At mom's instruction, I got off the beauty stool to use the bathroom before being subjected to the terrible stink and feel of the waving solution. With my head fully encased in curler rods, I walked past Tommy to get to the bathroom. The permanent curlers always felt strange to wear. Unlike rollers, but more like bobbi pins, the permanent wave curlers held tightly to my head, my hair wound neatly and smoothly onto the colorful rods. I did not particularly like the pink ones but realized they were just part of it. Mom and Aunt Carol used a collection of various home and professional rods. Before going back to submit to the torment of the application of smelly solution, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, admiring what I saw and then reminding myself that being a boy, I must surely look strange to my pal. Yet my mother, our neighbors, ladies at church, my grandmother, we all seemed to wear our curler rods much the same, with little difference. I just looked like "one of the girls." I returned to the kitchen, sat down again on the beauty stool and watched the look of amazement on Tommy's face as Aunt Carol re-fastened the plastic cape around me and prepared to put me through the agony of the permanent wave solution. Aunt Carol poured the smelly lotion into the plastic applicator. The odor made Tommy and me both wince. But it was worse for me because that potent stuff was about to go on my head. Mom held the plastic tray to the back of my head to catch the drips as, with my head downwards, Aunt Carol began soaking the back curlers on my neck. My eyes started tearing up as Aunt Carol began to work on the right side of my head. Even though mom caught the drips in the curved tray, the stench of the solution made me cry a few tears. Mom managed to wipe my eyes with a tissue. In another moment, I began to wheeze from the pungent fragrance. Aunt Carol tilted my head back as mom put the tray against my forehead and I covered my eyes with the towel. She soaked all of the front curlers. I felt the liquid starting cool and then getting warmer. To use all of the lotion, Aunt Carol doused all of my perm curlers with a second application. There was no easy way of getting through the waving lotion. The drenching of my curlers seemed to go on endlessly. As she worked at using all of the lotion until there was none left, Aunt Carol explained to Tommy how long this process would take and then we could play together. "After I have all of this lotion on Peter's head, we have to let it process. Then we rinse out the lotion and let the permanent neutralize. Then Peter's hair has to be styled, with some rollers and pins. So you see, Tommy, why this takes so long." Tommy continued to watch intently, saying that he thought had never seen anybody actually getting a permanent before, but had known about them from his mom going to the beauty parlor. He did not seem to grasp the time and steps involved in receiving a permanent wave."I didn't know, until Peter told me, that boys got permanents. But after he told me, I read about some singers and an actor on Broadway that get permanents." "Well now you know," my mother said. "A permanent wave gives hair more body, more curl and makes your hair easier to brush and style. Would like to have a permanent sometime, Tommy?" she asked pointedly. "No, ma'am, I don't think so," my pal answered. "That smell is something awful. I think Peter is brave to go through this. I'm glad that I don't have to."Aunt Carol gave mom a knowing kind of look that I didn't understand until later. When she had completed the saturation of my entire head, Aunt Carol said, "Okay, Peter, you're finished for awhile." Finally, the drenching was over. Though it had only been minutes, it felt like hours under the influence of the wetness and the intense odor on my tightly secured curlers. As I opened my eyes, Tommy was standing, looking at me with a melancholy face. He seemed sympathetic and compassionate. He said softly "I couldn't go through something like this, Peter. Glad it's you, not me." My mother said, "Well, Tommy, some things are a little worth suffering. Someday you may have a similar experience. Do you still want to stay?" "Yes, ma'am. Peter's my best pal. And maybe later, can we play with our puppets and work on some new skits?" "Yes, Tommy. But it will be awhile yet. After the permanent wave solution has worked, we'll rinse Peter's hair with water. Then we have to let the permanent process for a few hours. And then Peter's Aunt Carol will set his hair," my mom explained as Aunt Carol had. "Set? You mean like on curlers, like they use on my mom at the beauty shop?" he asked in surprise. "Yes, like that. They're 'rollers.' I could put your hair up on rollers when I do Peter's set, Tommy. Would you like that? Would you like to see what you'd look like with curled hair?" asked Aunt Carol. This time the length and specific details of my torture seemed to get my friend's attention. "No ma'am. I think Peter's hair looks nice but it probably wouldn't look as good on me," my sympathetic pal answered. "Well, you never know until you try, Tommy," mom said. At Aunt Carol's orders, I could not move, or get up yet, just sit until she told me it was time for rinsing. After a good thirty minutes, Aunt Carol finally led me over to the kitchen sink, and while I stood on a step stool, face down, she turned on the water and filled a glass pitcher with it, somewhat warm. She began slowly pouring water over my curlers. I closed my eyes tightly, somewhat soothed by the comforting water, reducing the odor so I was able to breathe a bit easier again. The pain from the tightness of the curlers and the stench from the lotion seemed to ease. She ran the water and patted my curlers with the palms of her hands, being quite careful not to knock any of the curlers loose. I was under the water for several minutes. Finally, Aunt Carol pulled me from the sink and turned the water off. She had a towel ready for me and draped it over my head quickly. She pushed it against my temples and I felt better. Tommy watched with unabated interest. With my wet head still filled full with perm curlers, I re-took my seat on the beauty stool. As I sat there in my mortification, waiting for the next step, the door bell rang again. Aunt Carol excused herself and went to answer it. I could hear her speaking with another woman whose voice sounded familiar but I couldn't quite place. Imagine Tommy's surprise when his mother, Linda Harrison, walked into the kitchen. She smiled sweetly at me, saying, "Peter, you poor dear! We ladies all know what you're going through. And you're a brave youngster to do it." Turning to her son, she said, "Now Tommy, when Peter's mom and his Aunt Carol told me about him having a permanent wave and your fascination with your friend's permanent, I figured you should join him and have one too." I noticed Mrs Harrison had a bag with a drug store logo on it. She opened it and produced two little girl "Tonette" perm kits, a box of perm curlers, perm tissues, hair pins, clips and a couple of hairnets which she placed on the table. So that was what Aunt Carol had arranged while she talked on the phone with Mrs Harrison. My pal had been set up, trapped, so that now he too was being subjected to the world of girls' permanent waving. Poor Tommy! "Now young man, you are going to change clothes. Then Rita and I will shampoo your hair. By that time, Peter will be in the processing cap and we can start your perm." You can imagine my friend's total surprise and his anguish. Tommy suddenly seemed very anxious as though as life was about to end. But Mrs Harrison was not to be disobeyed. She marched Tommy upstairs as he protested that he didn't need a perm and didn't want to go through what I was going through."Well young man, you will find out, like Peter, what it's like to have a permanent and what some people undergo to look nice. Now come this way," his mom ordered. While mom accompanied Tommy and Mrs Harrison upstairs, Aunt Carol repeatedly pushed on the towel many times against the curlers, soaking up the water so when she took it off, there were only a few drips of water which she wiped away. She opened the plastic wave processing cap, similar to a large size girl's swim cap. This was see-through, clear plastic with little pink flowers printed all over it. She gently fit it over my head, over my ears and buckled the strap under my chin. I always referred it as the "curler helmet" and wore it all the time with permanents that lasted all day or night with curler rods. It really was not that uncomfortable. The plastic had some type of cushioning that padded the curler rods and made it easier to keep on and even to sleep in. Tommy, accompanied by our mothers, walked back into the kitchen, dressed in old jeans and a long sleeve western shirt, well-worn. He stared at me in the plastic cap like I was a space monster. I thought to myself, just wait pal. Soon you too are going to look this weird. In minutes, he was seated on the beauty stool. Mrs Harrison had also purchased a new plastic cape which she soon fastened around Tommy's neck. Ably assisted by my mom and my aunt Carol, Mrs Harrison began expertly putting Tommy's hair into the plastic curler rods and the end papers. The look on his face as he felt the tight pull of the first several perm curlers was priceless. I could tell that he felt uncomfortable. Tommy vainly tried to hold his head properly so he could be set in the perm curlers, alternately staring at his knees under the plastic cape or looking wryly at me. I knew that he was thinking this was a horrifying and terribly embarrassing procedure for a boy to go through, being subjected to hair curling in a truly girlish fashion. Like me, he had a feeling of doom. Despite enduring this process in as much privacy as was possible in our kitchen, his terrified eyes said he was the victim of these women and feeling girlish and ashamed, with my aunt and mom helping his mother subject him to this female event. Like me, he was too polite and well-mannered to defy his mother. I knew he was realizing that he was being transformed into what he had seen in me all morning, a boy looking like a girl, having a permanent wave, his head covered in perm curlers. Mrs Harrison was faster at winding of the finger size spin curlers than even Aunt Carol. And she had the advantage of two other women helping her. I was amazed at how quickly Tommy's head was disappearing under the barrage of curlers. Mrs Harrison kept telling him to hold his head perfectly still, as she wound the rods into the various sections of his hair. Smoothly, tightly, meticulously, oh-so-carefully, Tommy's hair was wound tight. I watched him wiggle and try to hold still. I knew that this was the easy part of the permanent and it would quickly worsen with the waving lotion application which would come after she finished winding. Tommy stared at me in continued disbelief. As they worked on Tommy's hair, the three women gossiped about hair. In the midst of this, Mrs Harrison made a casual comment which made me and her son pay closer attention to the ladies talk. "This is great fun, Rita. My thanks to you and Carol for letting us join you. I have an idea. The next time the boys have permanents, let's take them to a beauty shop. I know the perfect place over in Shady Hill," Mrs Harrison said. Tommy and I stared at each other in total disbelief. The next time? In a beauty shop? Where women had permanents? We couldn't have heard her right, could we? Our moms wouldn't really do that to us, would they? My mom was saying, "Well, I do Peter's permanents here because beauty shops are so expensive. And of course, the need for privacy." "Oh, of course. I understand. And Tommy will too. He wouldn't dare tell anyone about his permanent, will you, dear?" Tommy shook his curler-covered head "no." While continuing to put perm curlers on my friend's head, Mrs Harrison went on. "This friend of mine owns a beauty parlor over in the Shady Hill section of town. She's a marvelous beautician. You wouldn't believe how many men she does privately in her shop. More than you could ever guess. But I think it would be good for our boys to have at least one professional permanent and all that goes with it, you know, a good deep conditioning treatment, a good haircut, a nice professional set. And she could do their finger nails while they're sitting under the dryers. And maybe even give them a mud pack to keep their skin nice." "Oh, that sounds wonderful," my mom said. "But I can imagine what a beauty shop over in that neighborhood would cost. More than I could afford for his hair, no matter how darling the results." "Well," Mrs Harrison answered, "Sheila, the owner, is a dear high school friend of mine. She'd be glad to do it. And I will gladly pay for the works for both of our boys. I'm just so happy for this inspiration and your help today. This is something I've thought about doing from time to time. I so appreciate you including me and Tommy. I'd be glad to treat the boys the next time. Please, would you allow me to do that? What do you say, Rita? I think it would just be so great for them to have the experience of a real day of beauty. Please, say yes, won't you?" Mom looked at Aunt Carol. They smiled at each other and at Mrs Harrison. "Oh, Linda, that's so very kind of you. Thank you so much. They should ready for permanents about the same time, probably right as school lets out for the summer. You're very generous! Sure, if your friend is willing, let's do it. You're right; it will be a good experience for the boys," my mom gushed to Mrs Harrison. "I'll call my friend Sheila as soon as I can. I'll just bet she'll love the idea of having our youngsters in her shop," Mrs Harrison answered. I knew that Tommy and I were doomed, not just today but the next time. We would be in a real ladies beauty shop! A day of beauty? Really? A whole day? Conditioning, whatever that was. Permanent waves. Our hair "set" by a beautician, just like when our moms went to a beauty parlor. Hairnets, probably pink, on our heads. In front of women we didn't know. Those funny pads over our ears. Sitting under those big silver-domed hair dryers. Our finger nails "done." With nail polish! A mud pack facial. Ladies and girls all around staring at us! Oh, help!!! Mom, say it ain't so, please!!! Soon enough, Tommy's head was completely secured in perm curlers. His mother instructed him to use the bathroom. I knew that he would stare at his hair in the bathroom mirror, fascinated by his strange appearance. I also knew, as he did not, what torment was just ahead for him. When he returned to his place on the beauty stool, Mrs Harrison attached a towel around the collar of the plastic cape. She handed him a towel to catch the dripping solution. With my mom holding a tray to Tommy's forehead and Aunt Carol holding one to his neckline, Mrs Harrison began to expertly apply the perm solution to Tommy's rigidly placed perm curlers. In minutes, his eyes were tearing up as mine had. I knew that he would never tell friends of what he witnessed today. He had held to his word to keep my terrible secret. Now he too was being initiated into the secret realm of boys who had been given permanents. He too was feeling how the dreadful waving lotion impacted every part of the body, overpowering the mind. I knew he felt like he couldn't breathe. It was devastating. He tried in vain not to let me see him cry but he couldn't keep it from me or the three adult women putting him through this terrible beauty ritual. Later, he confided to me that he understood why I had cried, noting there was probably no way not to cry. Finally, and not too soon for my real pal, the first part was over. His poor curler-covered head was absolutely soaking wet with the odorous solution. The next step meant waiting about 30 minutes for the application of the warm water. Tommy continued watching, open eyed at the goings on with my hair and with his. There wasn't much either Tommy or I could do, other than to just sit and endure what our mothers were doing, and doing with obvious enjoyment. It would soon be noon. While the ladies waited for poor Tommy's hair to curl, they talked about lunch plans. They decided that Aunt Carol would apply the rinse water to Tommy's perm curlers, dry him and put his wave processing cap on his head, making us a pair of curler-helmeted creatures. Mrs Harrison and my mother would fix a nice lunch for us all. Despite having been told several times already what was involved in having a permanent wave, my skinny pal was not completely aware of what would happen this afternoon. His mother had clearly decided that she did not want him to wear the curler rods the rest of the day in the "self neutralization" (or air oxidation), for a number of hours but rather, like me, she would get him out of the curler rods, which would mean sitting even longer, getting his hair set with rollers. I was very bored with sitting and realized what neutralizing meant, as Aunt Carol and mom had been rotating the 'long' and 'short(neutralized)' permanents on me the last several years. I had most of my permanents in the 'self neutralization' method, wearing the curler rods all day or night, which still meant, after the rods were removed, hours later, or even the next day, my hair would still be set. My mom had seldom let me use her bonnet hair dryer. Even though she used the bonnet quite often, she spent a lot of time with her hair up in rollers. All the women in the neighborhood seemed to practice the same ritual as most had hair dryers, but regularly went about in curlers, pins, clips or rollers. As I mentioned, I spent time in rollers, in the privacy of my own house, in the back yard, reading, playing games, working on my puppets or watching tv. I hated it but my aunts, mom and grandmothers always protected my privacy. Also, mom used a black hairnet on me when she at times insisted that I wear the hairnet. It was not always that she made me wear a hairnet. And when I had to wear the sleep bonnet, she used a plain dark blue one on me. And at the times when she covered my set hair with a scarf, she used a very plain white or grey one. I realized, as my pal did not, that our moms were going to put our hair up and in all likelihood, he was going to have to go home in the evening with his hair in rollers and wearing a hairnet. I didn't envy him the prospect of having to go outside the very first time he had his hair up in rollers. After quietly enduring his thirty minutes of torment, Tommy finally moved over to the kitchen sink, as directed. Aunt Carol had him stand on the step stool, his face down. As when she had rinsed me, she turned on the water and filled the glass pitcher. She began slowly pouring water over his perm curlers. She ran the water and patted his curlers with the palms of her hands, being quite careful not to knock any of the curlers loose. She kept Tommy under the stream of water for four or five minutes. Finally, Aunt Carol turned the water off. She had a towel ready for Tommy and draped it quickly over his head and pushed it against his temples. Aunt Carol pushed the towel many times against his perm curlers, soaking up the water, then she wiped away the few remaining drops. She opened the plastic wave processing cap from the kit Mrs Harrison had brought. The one to go on poor Tommy's head was yellow- colored plastic with little animals printed all over it, clearly one designed for a little girl's permanent. I felt sorry that my pal was going to have to wear this for the next several hours. My aunt carefully fixed it over Tommy's curler outfitted head, covering his ears and buckling the strap under his chin. The plastic cap began at once to fog up. I knew it would clear as his hair began to dry, yet would hold the moisture and never dry totally, even as the one on my head already had. He grinned shyly at me. Our moms called us to the dining room table. The first consolation for this otherwise terrible day was the lunch feast our moms served. While Tommy had been processing and rinsed, Mrs Harrison had gone to a neighborhood delicatessen and returned with fried chicken and potato salad. My mom had made two big pitchers of lemonade. She had also sliced up a big bunch of apples and oranges. For dessert, my mom, who did a lot of very good baking, put out two dozen chocolate chip cookies, freshly made two nights ago. Tommy and I sat opposite each other at the table, looking like a pair of space creatures. Every time Mrs Harrison made some comment about how cute we looked, Tommy turned absolutely scarlet. Eventually, we were excused while the three women remained at the table, talking, drinking coffee and eating mom's cookies. Telling us we could go to my bedroom, but to play carefully so that no perm curler would come loose, mom allowed us to leave the table. My pal and I went to my room to work on our puppets. When we got to my room, we stood in front of the mirror and looked at ourselves in our curlers and plastic caps. Tommy stared at the perm curlers under the caps on our heads and asked, "Why are our moms doing this to us?" "I really don't know, pal. My mom has insisted that my hair 'needs' this. I didn't know your mom would feel that way, too. Moms are strange sometimes. But we better not disturb these curlers or we'll be in trouble." He asked me, "So we just can't take the curlers out?" "Oh no," I told him, "it will be several hours before they take these off of our heads." He made a throaty noise, almost a deep gasp. "Hours?" "Yeah, hours. We can play and stuff until then. But we'll be like this for hours. Probably till dinner time." Tommy asked the question that I knew had an answer which he wouldn't like. "What happens then? Are we done, I hope?" "No. We aren't done then." Despite what my mom and my aunt had explained about the whole permanent wave procedure, he had not grasped the fact the we would have to submit to being set in rollers. "Gosh, we're not? What else can they do to us?" I paused a moment then said, "They will set our hair, with rollers and pins. Then we either have to sit under a hair dryer, one with a big plastic bonnet or, what my mom usually makes me do, sleep in rollers until tomorrow morning." My pal stared at me like I had lost my mind. "Seriously? You mean we'll look like girls? Like your sisters or my cousin Beth? Like my mom in the beauty shop? Like girls, like with our hair in hair curlers? Like wearing those antenna things to hear messages from outer space? You mean we're goin' to look like the girls from school after they've been at the pool?" In the summer time, all the neighborhood girls put their hair up on curlers after they had been swimming. You could always tell who was coming from the pool by looking for girls with wet hair up on rollers or in pin curls. "Yeah, just like girls," I moaned. "And if this is like the usual in this house, after they set us in rollers and pins, they'll probably put hairnets on us, too." With a pained look of disbelief on his face, Tommy asked, "Will my hair look like a girl afterwards? How does it feel to have your hair in rollers? Is that worse than these perm curlers? What does it feel like to look like a girl? What does it feel like to have a hairnet on you head?"He seemed more terrified about having his hair set than when his mom had announced that he would have a permanent. We talked quietly about this hideous prospect for awhile. Tommy had lots more questions about the hair setting experience. I helped him realize that he would have to go home with his hair set in rollers. To spare him that terrible agony, we decided to ask our moms if he could stay overnight at my house. Here he would have an experienced fellow sufferer and remain in a safe environment, free from detection by others from school or church. "Now, you understand why, when I told you about mom giving me permanents, I hoped you wouldn't tell anybody about this and made you promise, cross your heart, and hope to die, never to say a word. Now you know. It's a very girlish procedure, " I reminded him. "But you'll survive, pal. I'm kinda glad that now I'm not the only boy to go through this. You really are my best pal." For the next few hours, we were just two boy pals, playing games, thinking up a new skit for several puppets, talking about school, and discussing the spring Sunday school play in which we both had parts. Every so often, Tommy looked at my perm curlers or would reach up to gently touch the ones on his own head through the plastic cap. Sometimes, we both felt like strange characters, like medieval knights or World War I soldiers with our plastic helmets on, tied under our chins. But the permanent wave curlers affixed to our heads and very visible under the tight plastic, the flowers on my plastic cap and the little animals on his, reminded us that we were trapped like girls, undergoing a rite of passage that most girls went through a couple times a year, or like our mothers, suffering the torment that women endured for the sake of beauty. Before we knew it, Aunt Carol came into to my room. First, she complimented us on playing well and not messing up any of the curler rods on our heads. Next, she unbuckled the straps from under our chins and gently peeled off the plastic caps, exposing our curler-covered heads. The hours had passed fairly quickly. It was getting close to supper time. She led us back to the kitchen where we saw two chairs arranged facing each other. Aunt Carol directed me to one chair and Tommy to the other. As we sat staring at each other, Aunt Carol gently unwound the curlers at the back of my head, worked down the sides and then the top. Mrs Harrison did the same to Tommy's perm curlers. He gasped at the sight of our tighter curlier hair that came out of the perm curlers and wanted to know if our hair would now be this curly. My mother assured him that once our hair was set on rollers and dry, it would look fairly the same as mine always did, that is, like boys with naturally curly hair. When mom mentioned that Aunt Carol and Mrs Harrison would be "rolling" our hair, Tommy looked at the kitchen table and spotted the rollers and pins on the table as Aunt Carol was getting them ready for us to be "set". Tommy grimaced over the idea. I saw a look of panic in his eyes. With the all the perm curlers out, he reached up to touch his hair and feel the curls. He had a sense of disbelief. He had survived having his hair put in the perm curler rods, the application of the solution, the warm water rinse and several hours in the plastic cap. But now he looked panic-struck as his mom was about to set his freshly curled hair. Aunt Carol used a comb and a squirt bottle of water to moisten my hair before she dipped her comb into a dark-colored jar of setting lotion, and dragged the liquid gel through my hair with the rat tail comb several times before she began to section it off with clips. At this point, my pal sat with his mouth wide open. Before he could say a word, his mother was doing the same to him. In a matter of moments, the ladies had bent our heads down and began to wind our hair on an assortment of gray, white, green and brown smooth plastic rollers. Softly, Tommy gasped again, muttering he had never seen a boy in hair rollers before or one getting his hair set before. As his mother placed the rollers and pins on his head, she commented that we would emerge as "handsome young men" with the kind of hairstyles that male stars in Hollywood and on Broadway wore. She also told us that while we had played that afternoon, she had called her beautician friend at the "Pearls & Lace Beauty Shop" and arranged a beauty parlor visit for us in June, after school was out. While our moms and Aunt Carol "oohed" and "ahhed" over the prospect of us having our permanent waves professionally done the next time, Tommy and I could just roll our eyes at each other and stare resignedly as our heads continued to be transformed into "well set hair." As we were set from the center of our heads, down the back, and then to the sides, I could tell that my pal, undergoing his first ever hair setting, was biting back his tears. As Aunt Carol finished with the rollers and pins on my head, she explained to Tommy that he and I would both be sleeping in rollers tonight. This gave me the opportunity to suggest that since this was new for my best pal, that he stay overnight with me. Fortunately, our moms agreed. However, in the next moment, my friend had to endure the indignity of having his rollers covered with a hairnet (fortunately, black rather than sissy pink or something goofy like green) then having his whole head covered with a scarf (also a plain black).So we ate dinner in our roller-set hair. True to form, my mom had suggested to Linda Harrison that they experiment with styles so Aunt Carol had set both of them in rollers as well. My sisters, both in high school, didn't say a word about another boy at the table in curlers. In fact, my oldest sister, Cindy, had come home, showered and set her own hair so that of the seven people at the dinner table, five of us had our hair set. After dinner, Mrs Harrison drove home in her rollers. Tommy and I watched television. When it was time, we prepared for bed. Mom spread sleeping bags on the bedroom floor and let us use them. It had been an exhausting day, especially for poor Tommy. Aunt Carol was a magician when it came to preparing my set hair for bed. Many women and girls complained about sleeping in rollers, but they didn't have my aunt or her knack of getting me tightly into the hair net, the rollers doubly secure, tissue surrounding the edges and the slumber cap, so that I was very seldom uncomfortable sleeping in them. Sleeping in curlers was a problem for Tommy. Despite my aunt's careful arrangement of his hairnet and sleep cap, he took a long time to get used to the feel on his head and to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. In addition, he fretted about how to explain to other kids why his hair looked different, the whole process of getting the permanent wave, how girlish we both looked in perm curlers and now in rollers and hairnets, and so on. I calmed him down as best I could. My fretting, which I kept to myself, was what was going to happen to us in June when our mothers took us to the "Pearls & Lace Beauty Shop." The next two months went by smoothly. We did our puppet plays, performed in the Sunday school drama at church, played baseball and waited for the school year to come to an end. Every week it seemed either Tommy slept over at my house or I did at his and we slept in rollers and hairnets. At my house, Aunt Carol put our hair up before bed. Aunt Carol also introduced my pal to being set with bobbi pins and hair clips as well as rollers. At Tommy's house, his mom would set her own hair and then do ours. At first, I felt shy about a woman not a member of my family, setting my hair but I quickly got used to it. Mrs Harrison invested in two home hair dryers with big plastic bonnets which she used on us on her house. My pal and I would sit at the kitchen table looking at each other as our set hair dried under the warm, flowery bonnets while I wondered what it would be like when we were sitting in a beauty shop under those monstrous dryers with our hair professionally set. When June finally came, my usual excitement about the end of school faded as the prospect of our beauty parlor permanents drew ever closer. Our mothers talked together repeatedly about this hideous event, constantly referring to it as "the boys' day of beauty." Their joy and anticipation made me all the more fretful. What would it be like to be in a beauty shop with women we didn't know giving us the permanents? What other women or girls might be in the shop and watching our humiliation? Would our moms really submit us to manicures and mud packs? My stomach churned at the fearful prospects. So it finally happened that on a Monday morning in June, on what should have been the start of the first full week of summer vacation, Tommy and I sat in Mrs Harrison's big Oldsmobile sedan as she drove us to the Shady Hill part of town. This was an area that later would be called "upscale" with large private homes, fancy apartment buildings and a business district with expensive shops and restaurants. Mom had awakened me at six-thirty, just like on a school day. She emphasized that we had an early appointment at the beauty shop because Tommy and I were scheduled for what she excitedly called "the works!" Mrs Harrison, with Tommy in the car, picked me up at a quarter-to-eight. She too was bubbling with excitement while Tommy and I felt like bandits headed for our hanging. She found a place to park and led us to the entrance of the "Pearls & Lace Beauty Shop." "Pearls & Lace" was every bit as feminine as it sounded. The entrance door consisted of frosted white glass with "Pearls & Lace Beauty Shop" in large fancy script in the center of the top panel of the glass. The windows on either side were covered with lace curtains to protect the modesty of the women having their hair done in one of the smartest beauty shops in town. Mrs Harrison pushed the door open and ushered us into a welllit reception area where there was a small reception desk and an expensive sofa with a few well-cushioned chairs where clients awaited their appointments. The floor was covered with a lush black carpet. An umbrella stand and several racks of ladies magazines sat near the sofa and chairs. As she opened the glass door an oldfashioned bell, situated over the door, loudly announced our arrival. Mrs Harrison had told my mom that the owner agreed to take us on Monday because on Monday she was usually closed so there would be no other patrons for us to worry about. "Good morning, Linda! If you and the boys would like to take a seat, I'll be with you momentarily." Sheila's singing voice came welcoming and reassuring from behind a curtain. True to her word, in a minute, the curtain opened and a slim, very pretty woman of Mrs Harrison's age, appeared. She was well dressed, wearing a very 1950's classy hair style. Her makeup was the most elaborate I had ever seen in person. She looked like women in the movies or on television. She had gold earrings in her ears. Over her very smart skirt and blouse she wore a beautician's white smock with "Sheila" stitched in red over her left breast. Her slim legs shone in beige hosiery. She wore black high heels. "Linda, it's so good to see you, dear," she gushed as she and Mrs Harrison did that womanly cheek-to-cheek without smudging each other's makeup. "And this must be Tommy and Peter. What good-looking youngsters! Ready for your day of grooming, sweethearts? Gretchen, our appointments are here," she said over her shoulder. At her call, a twenty-ish red-haired young woman appeared. She too wore an elaborate 50's hairdo, a beautician's smock over a nice dress, stockings and high heels. "This is my most talented young stylist, Gretchen, who's going to help do our young customers today. Gretchen, this is Linda Harrison, my best friend from high school, her son, Tommy, and his friend, Peter Stowe," Sheila said by way of introduction. "Honey, why don't you get our customers into their smocks while Linda and I talk a few minutes?" At her boss' direction, Gretchen led us through a curtained doorway to the left of the reception area. She helped first Tommy then me into pink smocks which covered us from our necks to our ankles, tying them closed at the back while explaining that this was to protect our clothes while we had what she unabashedly referred to as "your beauty treatments." Having gotten us clad in our pink smocks, she led us back into the reception area. "Don't they look darling?" Sheila asked Mrs Harrison as we re-entered. "Now you run along and enjoy your shopping, Linda. We should have them well into in their perms by the time you come back but don't hurry. Take your time, dear. You know they'll be fine." Mrs Harrison kissed us both on the cheek, telling us to "enjoy" and she breezed out of the door. Sheila locked the beauty shop door and made sure that the "CLOSED" sign hung in the middle. Enjoy? How could we enjoy "beauty treatments"? "All right, sweethearts, let's get started. We've a lot to do with you two darlings. Follow me, please" and she guided us through the curtain in front of the reception area and into the main salon. The black and white tile floor gleamed. The expansive room was brightly lit by a row of a large chandelier style lighting arranged across the ceiling. The space on both the right and the left was subdivided, using netted curtain material, into three cubicle style self-contained styling areas on each side. Each cubicle contained a workstation with a styling chair, shampoo sink, supply cabinet of expensive wood and a large mirror. In the very middle of the salon area was a bank of six silver-domed hair dryers, back-to-back with three facing each way. To the rear of the main shop area were two larger cubicles. Each contained a bigger chair which could be tilted so the ladies could receive facials, and other treatments, as we were later to discover. Sheila took Tommy into the first cubicle on the left. Gretchen put me in the one next to it. Sheila drew back the netted curtain between the two cubicles explaining that when she had customers who wanted to talk and to see each other, she could do this easily just by pulling back the curtain. "I though you two might want to chat and you might feel more relaxed if you can see each other. You'll be having the exact same beauty treatments. Relax and enjoy. Let's get started, shall we?" The styling chairs were impressive salon furniture, sturdily constructed with lots of metal levers, upholstered in elegant, smooth pink leather. Having never in my young life been in a beauty shop or a barber shop before, I was impressed. Gretchen gestured me to sit. The seat was a bit high with a footrest, for support, about six inches above the floor. I eased myself up and slid as far back as I could into the soft upholstery. I put my feet on the footrest and Gretchen turned the chair so that I was facing the mirror. The sensation of being off the ground and moving was strange. Gretchen placed a clear plastic cape over my smock and secured it in the back. Next a towel was placed around my shoulders and tucked in around the collar of my smock. Gretchen then placed another towel around the opposite way around my front. I wondered what all this was for-smock, cape, two towels. I didn't see any permanent wave equipment in sight. Sheila explained that our first treatment would be a deep conditioning treatment. She and Gretchen each opened a jar which had a thick, yellow, very sweet smelling cream in it. Using little spatulas, they spread a thick layer of it on our hair. They used their fingers to smooth the paste evenly over our heads until Tommy and I both looked like we had yellow cream instead of hair. A plastic shower cap was placed on each of our heads. Then a hairnet, pink of course (my worst fears), was placed over the shower cap, fastened in the back & then the ends tied into little bows right in the middle of our foreheads. The final indignity was a large vinyl cap which covered ears and forehead and snapped shut under our chins. They fit more snugly than the plastic caps we had endured at my house. These caps were plugged into wall outlets and the heat controls turned on. The controls were in the back and so beyond our reach. For twenty minutes we just cooked, alternately looking at our images in the mirrors then staring fearful- eyed at each other. The heat generated a pleasant mint-like smell from the cream on our hair. But the caps were uncomfortably tight and very warm. So this torture was what "deep conditioning" was about. Ugh! And already we were in pink hairnets. Looking in the mirror, I could see those big bullet hair dryers lying in wait in back of us and I knew that soon enough we'd be suffering under them as I had heard my mom and grandmothers complain about being endlessly basted under hot dryers by beauticians. This was going to be an awful day. At that moment I had no idea just then how awful it really would be, before it was over. After we had simmered for twenty minutes, Sheila and Gretchen re- appeared. Gretchen turned off the heat in my cap. She removed the cap, the hairnet, the plastic cap and the two towels around my neck. Next she turned to the sink and turned on the water. She ran it for a few moments, adjusting volume and hot and cold until the temperature was exactly what she wanted. Leaving the water running, she dried her hands and returned to the side of the chair. "Now sweetheart, just relax while I get you into position to be shampooed," Gretchen remarked. She swivelled the chair around until the sink was behind me. I hear a metallic click. She put one hand on my shoulder and applied firm pressure as I felt my body and the back of the chair leaning gently backwards. Gretchen gently pushed downward on my shoulder, while my feet rose slightly upward, until I sensed the cold porcelain of the sink on the back of my neck. With another metallic click, the chair stopped. Looking up, I saw Gretchen leaning over me, her hands pushing my hair into the sink. After a few moments, the I felt the sensation of warm water on my scalp. Gretchen's talented fingers guided the warm water through my hair. Soon I feel the cold shampoo reaching my scalp and then the wonderful massaging sensation of being shampooed. After a through shampoo and rinse, she raised me back to a sitting position and turned the chair so that I was again facing the mirror. As I sat there, facing the mirror, Gretchen towel-dried my hair. She reached into the cabinet and removed a tray containing the perm curler rods and other equipment for my perm which she placed on a little table which she had set up beside the styling chair. She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Gretchen slipped a comb through my wet hair going gently to work out any tangles that the shampooing might have left. Then she separated my hair into eight small sections and pinned each section out of the way with a long silver clip. Sheila and Gretchen conferred about the type of perm and the setting pattern they intended to use on us. Gretchen tipped some perming solution into a glass dish then with a sponge dampened the first section of my hair with it. The strong smell of the solution hit my nose and made me wince but it was not as awful as the stuff Aunt Carol used in the home permanent kits. Using her comb, she separated my hair into little strands right at the front of my scalp, and maintaining a gentle pressure, held it extended with one hand. With her other hand, she took a piece of fresh, shiny end paper, folded it so that it covered the strand she had just combed, on both sides, front and back. She slid it about half way out from my scalp, took a pink rod, and began winding down toward the scalp at a 45degree angle. The pull on my hair was much firmer than Aunt Carol's winding. My head was going to feel very constricted by the time she had me completely set in the perm curlers. The quick-fingered beautician worked rapidly in the routine of wetting with solution, papering and affixing the pink curlers as she moved her way backwards, to the crown of my head. I shot a glance to my left, I saw Tommy's head being similarly transformed under Sheila's deft ministrations. As I sat watching, I felt my palms sweating on the armrests of the styling chair. I felt more nervous that day than any time I had a permanent wave at home. I fervently wished my mother had never agreed to this torture. Having finished the first row, running like railroad ties along my scalp, Gretchen proceeded to do a second parallel row on the top of my head. Completing that, she told me to tip my head forward as she started to wind the back of my hair up onto the perm curlers. As I sat with my chin rested on the plastic of the cape in which I was draped, she started a section above my right ear, running perpendicular to the rows on top of my head. First one then another pink perm curler was firmly wound up into my hair. I tried to count them but lost track My scalp was tingling all over from the steady and increasing pressure, and I could feel the additional weight of damp and rigidly wound curlers on my head. Gretchen continued to roll row after row until the right side was done, then she moved to the left side, and repeated the process. Finally, after almost three-quarters of an hour, she was done. I turned to see Tommy in the same situation with an armada of pink perm curlers fixed to his head. "How many of those rods did you use on me, ma'am?" Tommy politely asked Sheila. She laughed and said "I think each of you has about seventy-five or so rods in your hair. Are you two still comfortable? Now comes the bad part. We're going to apply a lot more of the perming solution to each and every rod on your heads until they are really soaked. Then you will have to process. Why don't you two sweethearts use the restroom now?" The beauticians removed the towels and capes form our necks. Sheila led us over to the restroom (which was marked "Ladies" but, she explained, was the only one in the beauty shop). Glad of the short reprieve, Tommy & I scooted in. After using the toilets in adjoining stalls, we washed our hands and felt the wet, very stationary perm curlers on each other's head. "Wow, this is worse than the permanents we were given at your mom's house," Tommy sighed. "Yeah, I know," I commiserated. "Now comes lots of smelly solution. Then we still are going to get all that other stuff, our nails painted, our hair set on rollers, being under those dryers and all that stuff. I wonder if we get to eat any lunch? Well, you ready, pal?" Tommy grinned weakly at me and we headed back to the styling chairs. "Tommy, your mom called. She has not yet finishing her shopping. We're going to apply the solution and get you two processing, Okay dears?" Sheila told us. "By the time we're done with that, Mrs Harrison will be here with your lunches." Once I was re-seated, Gretchen re-fastened the cape around my neck and put a fresh towel both at the front and another at the back. I watched carefully as Gretchen took a strip of cotton and fitted it under the line of perm curlers all around my head. This was something new, compared to the curved tray mom & Aunt Carol used at home. Gretchen had already poured the solution into a rather large squeeze bottle which had a little sponge on the tip. "Sorry about the bad odor,"she said, "but that's the price you have to pay to have a pretty permanent for the look your mothers asked for." She tipped my head forward and I felt the coldness of the solution as she pressed it onto the perm rods. Beginning at the nape of my neck, I sensed her squeezing the cool, slippery liquid onto the permanent rods. The smell started to overpower me but there was no escape. I could feel the cold solution running down my head. I was very thankful for the cotton wool around the perm rod line. As the solution was applied to the rods on top of my head she gently tipped me backwards. One curler after another became saturated, and my head became heavier and heavier. As with home permanents, Tommy and I both shed a few tears but the beauticians carefully wiped our eyes with tissues. Finally, Gretchen was finished. I had a head full of very wet, very smelly, very tight perm rods. She removed the cotton roping and replaced it with a fresh strip. Gretchen put a plastic cap, something like a woman's swim cap, tightly over my head. This cap was also much tighter than the plastic cap Aunt Carol used on my head. I could feel the cap pushing the curler rods tightly against my scalp. I turned again to my left and saw Tommy, already in the same situation, the bulge of the permanent curlers showing under the tight cap on his head. "You two look so cute sitting there. Now for the hair dryers, sweethearts. At this point your hair has to process. That takes heat. So we're going to put you each under a dryer for twenty to thirty minutes. Ladies find it hard to hear under the dryer so you probably won't be able to talk to each other while you process. On the arm of the dryer chair is a little bell which you can ring if the heat gets too uncomfortable. Just remember, permanents do need to be very warm to form the best curl. Okay, dears, follow me," Sheila directed. This was even worse than I thought. We were being put under those monster dryers already. As we left the styling chairs, I noticed that Gretchen had already turned on two dryers which were making a who