Gettin' My Hair Did

When I was a little girl, I dreaded the one day all the other kids looked forward to, because half of the entire day of Saturday was devoted to my hair.  I have always had thin, straight, fine hair and was of the tender headed variety, so, to me, the time invested was not worth the fleeting result. My mother, however thought differently. She had beautiful dark curly hair that knew how to behave, and she was determined to whip my pitiful hair into shape with a few procedures. After all, the 50s were all about Shirley Temple curls, and Mama loved a cosmetic challenge.  

First, a towel was fastened around my shoulders with a giant safety pin at my neck. Afterwards, I was invited to step onto the stool in front of the kitchen sink where a shampoo hair shield was stuck on my head, with all of my hair being pulled up through the circular hole at the top. If you are not familiar with these contraptions, it is a disc made from stretchy plastic much like a rubber doughnut that is designed to keep shampoo from getting into your eyes.  Because I was standing up leaning over the sink, it was  convenient for Mom to have my hair in one big clump at her disposal. Mom’s hands were in hot water a lot during the day, so sometimes the water was way too hot for my tender headed skull. But if I complained I might get a stream of super cold water, so it was better just to try to take the heat. My scalp was sufficiently scrubbed and rinsed twice, but  I still had a lot left to go. After a comb out, my hair hung limp and wet and ready for the next unpleasant experience: the dreaded wave clamps. Those stainless steel gadgets were not in the least kid-friendly, with their jaws of multiple teeth just waiting to entangle my hair. There would be twenty or so of those shark-toothed chip clips secured to my scalp, grabbing what little hair they could creating indentations all over my head. After my hair dried and they were removed it was not enough to have multiple impressions all over. There must be curls--even if they weren’t natural.  So, what do you do in the 50s if you want tight curls on top of the fake waves? You get your hair rolled up on rags. About 30 pieces of old diapers or dishrags ripped into strips about eight inches long and an inch wide found a place on top of my head. My hair was parted into small sections, dampened on the ends, and rolled tightly around each strip of cloth which were then tied in a half knot on top of my head.  Sitting still is not my strong suit, so this was an excruciating leg of the hair torture.  If it was late in the day, I might be sleeping on this mess. And finding a position where a knot wasn’t driving itself into my scalp was a challenge.  And then, of course, the next day was the untying. Think of all the little hairs that got crossways in the rag as it was being rolled. The unrolling hurt just as much as the rolling up. The brush could barely find its way through the tightly wound curls, and I could barely keep my eyes from tearing up during this phase. Finally, my hair was cajoled into place and my mother seemed as happy with the final product as I was to have it over.  As the week wore on, the curls began to droop, even with hair nets securing them at night,and by Thursday or Friday, a pony tail was in order. It would have suited me just fine to sport that pony tail all week to keep from wasting an afternoon inside having my hair tugged, pulled and knotted because I can still remember how I cringed when Mama called me in from playing outside on a perfectly wonderful Saturday to enter the gates of hair hell.

This is not me--it's a photo from the internet. 

Snow Days

Snow was not super common in Blytheville when I was growing up, but it happened almost every year. Just like kids today, we were excited to have school called off and to join the other kids outside to slide, throw snowballs, and build snowmen. But my mom put a whole new meaning to winter wear in the 60s. First layer was pjs or long underwear, second layer was some sort of pants and sweater, and then, the jacket.  All normal things to wear on a frigid snowy day, right? But the outerwear was the marker of my sisters and me.  We did not own a ski jacket or water proof pants or boots. Our family did not take ski trips in the 60s and I don’t think too many others in our town did either. It was costly, and we didn’t have the time. Our Christmas breaks were devoted to family and I don’t remember having a Spring Break until I went to college. So Mom looked in her stash of washed and saved bread bags and rubber bands and put them on our hands and feet over our gloves and shoes. At times we had those transparent galoshes that fit over shoes but the bags went over those too, up to our shins. And to top it all off, she put a good coating of Taloin diaper rash cream all over our lips and cheeks. And the stuff was pink. Really pink. And I can still conjure up that smell. I actually put cream on my girls’ faces when they were little before they went out to play in the snow or on ski trips. But it was clear and odorless like A and D or vaseline. Mom’s intentions were about helping out our bodies, but often that choice trumped our feelings. I can remember being so embarrassed to come outside with the bright Wonder Bread red, yellow, and blue circles on my legs and hands and a face that smelled a whole lot like a baby’s bottom, giving a whole new meaning to butt cheeks. And it was nearly impossible to make a snowball with packaged hands!  At times, I would look to see if she was watching from the window, and if not, I would stick the bags on a bush until it was time to come in. Negotiating ice and snow with plastic on the bottom of my shoes was a side show in itself, so I learned how to avoid the slick spots by finding the deeper areas of snow in which to walk. It was always a good idea to get permission to go to someone else’s yard to play, but I could never stay out too long without the Wonder Bread bags. Eventually, if I did leave them on, the rubber bands would break and the bags would droop around my shoes like stockings too large for an old woman. I remember wondering if it was worth the hassle of bags and ointment, but getting outside in the snow in the South was worth it.  And guess what?  During subsequent snows, I would catch a glimpse of bags on some of the other kids.  Maybe she was on to something.