Brillo Pad Incident

• » print
• » report
• » email

When I was 15, I gave all new meaning to the term “bad hair day.” What I had was a bad hair extravaganza. I was halfway into my first year of high school, and I longed for a new look – I had no idea how much of one I was about to get . . .  I wanted a home permanent and it was decided that my sister, who was 18, would give it to me. (Boy, did she.) The evening the perm was planned, mom and dad went out. Looking back on that night, I should have grabbed their ankles and begged, “Please don’t go!!” If they hadn’t, my nightmare would not have occurred. Here’s my story: Things started off smoothly. MY sister dutifully read the instructions and proceeded through the steps. Then: trouble. Right after she put the curling solution on my hair, we began to verbally fight. The situation escalated, and she decided that she was not going to let me get near water to rinse my hair; in other words, she was going to make darn sure that I got my money’s worth out of that perm-in-a-box.

She was evidently retaliating for the things I had done to her - for instance: we always shared a room and I had the top bunk. We lived in Florida and had no air conditioning - this meant we basically slept with nothing over us - even a sheet. She liked to sleep on her stomach and generally wore a nightgown. I liked to wait until she was asleep and then quietly slide my leg down the wall. I’d use my toes to lift and tug on the tail of her gown. Once she started moving and making weird waking-up noises, I’d quickly pull my leg back up. I generally did this several times a night so I could feel that I had the power. (She caught me a couple of times and tried to grab my leg, but I was too fast for her. I worried, however, that she would actually get out of bed and punch me, but she never did.)

The second reason I believe she was retaliating was because of the boyfriend/bedroom window incident. The night that happened, I was truly innocent (except for when I started yelling “intruder!” when I knew there wasn’t one.) I was, honestly, sound asleep in my top bunk when I heard a noise at the window. I peeked out and saw my sister and her boyfriend (I never did like that arrogant rear-end) taking the screen off the window so he could push her in. It was obvious that it was after her curfew. The way the window was positioned, she had to climb in on top of me - well, I wasn’t about to have any of that. I started screaming so mom and dad would hear and that’s when she actually put a pillow over my face and tried to smother me, which is the same thing as KILL me. (How would you like to live with that floating around in your memory?)

Anyway, back to the perm. By the time mom and dad got home, I was a sniffling, bruised mess (the good news was, I had gotten in a few good punches so sissy didn’t look all that great, either.) I immediately rinsed my hair, but it was too late – the curling solution had done its job - my head looked like a giant brillo pad.

I stayed in bed and cried for the next 3 days. Finally, mother told me I had to get up and go back to school. First, she took me to a beauty shop (a ‘60s term meaning hair salon for any young ones reading this) where I got several inches cut off. Here’s the difference that made: I then had four curls per strand of hair versus the eight I had before the haircut. I guess you would call that a “modified brillo.” I only looked ridiculous for a couple of months. Anyway, 45 years later, I’m still ticked off.