the story of the perm.

Given my brother's comment in the last post, I am now inspired to tell the Story of the Perm. Also, I'm bored.

This will be told in the manner of my namesake, Sophia from the Golden Girls*. You will see why within the context of the story.

Picture it: Long Island, 1989

There was a young girl in fifth grade. She was going through an excessively prolonged ugly duckling phase, what with braces on her teeth and a coat of fur on her arms and legs given her Indian heritage. Body waxing, in her household, was sadly not an option until after one's age was in the double digits.

She was a studious little girl, and loved to read Cam Jansen novels and Babysitter's Club Books. She was also sadly afflicted by a serious obsession with Jordan Knight of the New Kids on the Block. So much so that she subscribed to both Bop and the Big Bopper magazines so that she could tear out pictures of Jordan Knight and wallpaper her room with them.

Life consisted of school, books and television. She had some friends, but no BFF. All the other girls had BFFs and she was sad. There were three other little Indian girls in her class, and the little bookworm so badly wanted to be friends with them. They were nice to her, but they often went to movies together without telling the girl. One day, one of the "cool" girls came into school with a perm. Two weeks later, another one of the girls came in with a perm. Everybody ooh'd and aah'd. The little girl knew what she had to do to get accepted. Go to a salon and create disulfide linkages between artifically placed curlers. (Oops, sorry, I got a bit ahead of myself. Pesky MCAT knowledge still exists somewhere in my brain.)

Anyway, the girl begged her parents to let her get a perm. Since she was quite annoying and had a high pitched voice, her parents relented. Coincidentally, that afternoon, the little girl's father was going to get a haircut. The girl pleaded to go along, and accompanied her father to get his haircut so that she could get a perm.

Once at the salon, the girl noticed that everyone there was a senior citizen except for her father. Old ladies with white hair curled tight around their heads, exactly like Sophia from the Golden Girls, sat around talking about cookies and crochet. The little girl was confused, but sat in the chair and demanded her perm.

The stylist obeyed and soaked the poor child's head in noxious chemicals. 3 hours later, the girl emerged from under the stylist's hood. Her thick, luscious locks had been transformed into tight, tight oily curls that clung to her skull. The little 9 year old girl had become, in fact, a mini, dark skinned Golden Girl.

She went home and cried. She tried to brush out the curl. The next day she pulled her hair tight into a ponytail and went to school, where everyone laughed at her. Later that week, in her mosque, the other children began calling her Michael Jackson. The nickname stuck longer than the perm did.

That little girl was me.

The humiliation remains with me to this day. So yes, thanks to my brother for recalling those painful memories. But also, thanks for reminding me that my current haircut could never, ever rival going through fifth grade with all the standard pre-pubescent angst, plus an absolutely awful perm.

Oh yeah, and fifth grade was the year where the background I choose for my school pictures was "Lasers." Neon green and pink laser beams shot in the background, as I sat there with a painful look and a terrible perm.

The photos are at home, but I will scan some in shortly when I go to New York this weekend. Because, seriously, it would be an injustice not to provide you loyal readers with a visual to accompany this story.

*Oh, and Sophia from the Golden Girls is not my namesake. She might as well be though. I was actually named after Sophia Loren. That is a completely true fact.