Mom on the Run: A 'perm'-anent lesson in hair

I send the first text: "Status?" We've gotten pretty good at texting, my daughter and I, we communicate well in few words.

What I'm really saying is, "You went alone to get your first perm, and I'm dying of curiosity! How's it going?"

My daughter knows I mean all that in my seven-character message, and she writes back, "Trimming," which means … "Perm is done, having hair cut, I can't tell yet how it's going to look."

Hesitantly, I ask the most important question: "Happy?" I hold my breath as I await the response from the salon.

We've got straight hair, both of us, and of course we want curls, body, something different than what we have. So my daughter's been talking about a perm -- A permanent wave! Ideal! -- for years.

Beth, our regular stylist, has talked her out of it before, but this time my 17-year-old was not to be dissuaded. And today's the day. My own past perms flash before my eyes.

I am nervous for her.

"Its wet i cant tell yet," comes the next text.

And shortly thereafter, my stomach sinks as I read: "So far much curlier than ex-pected."

"It will relax a lot. Dont worry!" I quickly text back. I've had a whole lot of perm experience, though not for many years. After the last one grew out, I swore off perms forever.

I shared all the gory details as my daughter debated.

"My mom used to do mine," I told her. "She would wrap my hair around the curlers, douse me in solution, and cover my head in an old lamp-shade cover. It smelled terri-ble." I think about the smell, and it all comes flooding back: "My first perm, from the Sears salon, was really tight, and my hair was really short, and my bangs didn't take, so it was all flat in the front and frizzed out on the sides." I held my hands out past my ears, demonstrating.

"I don't want my bangs curled anyway," my daughter countered. "And my hair is too long for that. Plus it won't be that curly." I nodded slightly, skeptical.

"Mine never turned out as expected," I warned. But I had to admit, "My last perm, from a salon, that was good. She used really large rollers. I liked that one."

I told her about my hair bleaching and drying, about frizz and limpness, but I guess that one ex-perience was the only one that sunk in: "That was good. I liked that."

So she made the appointment. But now her texts don't sound so sure.

"Its looking better as it dries," I receive, which means, "I was really unhappy and now I'm only unhappy, and I'm putting on a brave face."

I send back reassuring messages: "Its always tighter when wet. And new wet is the tight-est."

Finally she leaves the salon, runs an errand, and gets home an hour later. I meet her at the door and regard her hair.

I like it, though it's different from the example picture, these are definite curls, not waves. I search her face: happy? Upset?

"It looks good!" I pronounce confidently. She smiles and nods and -- uh oh -- doesn't say anything.

Hours later, her hair back in its familiar ponytail, "I don't like it," she confides. "It's not what I wanted at all. And I don't want to be stuck with it for six months."

It's not a wail, she's taking this much better than I did at her age, and I'm proud of her.

"It's going to relax," I tell her again, gently, promising, and I hold my breath, remembering my own perms, hoping it's true.

Lianne Wilkens lives with her family in Manassas. She can be reached at liannewilkens@hotmail.com.