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.
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