Pictures of a Bad Perm

During the fire season last year, I became particularly agitated about the threat of fire. I couldn’t sleep at night, obsessing about my perpetual state of disorganization. When we were evacuated during the landslide, I grabbed all of the wrong things: stuffed animals, pillows and food. Then I lost my car keys. Nothing like having a police cruiser in front of your house, using its bullhorn to belt out orders of immediate evacuation.

Heeding the call to become the Queen of Organization, I recently took out every photo album and pulled out the photos. (What in the world were we thinking when we put our photos on that glue paper?) Staring at the photos, old memories of a previous life flooded my senses, a smell, a sound or a conversation. Sitting in a Chinese village drinking tea with a villager as he explained to me that true love was Deng Xiaoping (the leader of the Communist Party of China during the 1980s). In the picture, I look so young and alert. Although obviously not alert enough when I was in Egypt. My girlfriend and I hired a man and his camel to take us past the pyramids for the perfect photo. After we dismounted to take the photo, a mile from the pyramids, the man refused to take us back unless we gave him more money, which, of course, we did.

My attempts at the great scenic shot of the Royal Thai Palace or the Leaning Tower of Pisa with my thumb right in the middle of the shot make me laugh, as do my various outfits. There was my hippy phase, English polo and, my favorite, Italian fashionista.

But my hairstyles tell the best story. Photos from church camp in my home state of Kentucky show the hours I spent rolling my hair in sponge rollers in hopes of having uncontrollable curls. Once I got out of college and could pay for a perm, I fried my hair every which way. My travels through Europe and Asia showed various stages of curliness. The Italian root perm that looked like Tina Turner post-tornado sealed the deal that curls were not my look.

The super short buzz cut, an attempt at a feminist statement against beauty standards, highlighted my adult acne. During grad school, I slipped backwards and got another perm that had to be ironed out when I played a prostitute in a local play. Once I moved to Los Angeles, in pursuit of a Hollywood career, the bangs were snipped like Sandra Bullock in “Speed.” And when I met my husband at a trendy Los Angeles restaurant, I had started with the highlights, an attempt to regain my sun kissed look from my two years in Hawaii.

Post-partum with my first daughter, a big blonde skunk-like stripe framed my face, letting everyone know I was not the typical mom. Fourteen months later when my second daughter arrived, ponytails and stained clothing in every photo show my complete lack of me time. (Although I seem to remember visiting the hairdresser and inquiring about yet another perm!)

Nowadays, it’s just straight hair that is probably too long for my age and colored to take out the gray. No longer wanting for curly hair, I am now obsessed with my fat arms; thus, the photos of me either hiding behind my kids, wearing long sleeves or both. Fat arms or not, the pictures of my kids and family are my favorites ones in the pile of over 2,000 pictures.

True love is not a Communist leader or a great perm, but the little faces that grow and change each day. Getting organized has made me realize how rich my life has been. Which is a good thing, because the amount of paperwork waiting to be organized is enough to make me want to scream, “Fire!”

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