When I was about nine years old, my mom took me to the local hair salon to get my hair done. I had straight brown hair. And every Saturday night, my mom would religiously coat my hair in Dippity Do and put me to bed with curlers so that my hair would be properly puffy for church on Sunday. But by mid-morning, my hair would have fallen and would again be stick-straight.
The stylist had an idea. It was too long, she said, and too thick. She would, she said, cut it and give me a double perm to make ...