STRANGER THAN FICTION; SPLITTING HAIRS: FIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS GIVE PERMS

Sticking my finger in a light socket would have been cheaper.

In an effort to recapture my lost youth, I'm returning my hair to its 1989 style.

You remember it, girls. Mall bangs standing tall over your overprocessed locks. "Wings" on the sides of your head created by blowing hair outward while shellacking it in place with a half can of hairspray.

Ah, those were the days. The big hair made my hips look slimmer, so I was beating young men off with a stick. Sure, they were unemployed maniacs. And sure, they were unencumbered by vehicles. But they LIKED me, they really LIKED me!

Recently, with my hair grown out enough to actually touch my shirt collar, Edward The One-Named Stylist decided it was time to go for the perm.

"Should we use the white rods?" he asked as I sat in the styling chair and sipped a glass of Sutter Home White Zinfandel. Now I know the wine wasn't just a nice amenity offered by a classy artist. It was an attempt to ease the shock and pain I'd experience later.

Asking me if I wanted to use white rods was pointless. What do I know? It was like going to the car repair shop. The mechanic says, "Looks like you'll need a completely new discombobulater in your cam shaft. It'll cost you $300." I nod solemnly, write a check and sit in the waiting room for an hour while the mechanic drinks coffee and tells his friends about the Amazon woman he just suckered.

Of course, I told Edward the white rods would be fine. But I didn't know the equation: White Rods + Heidi's Hair = Shock Therapy Patient Look-Alike.

He got done with the perm and told me it would be best to let it air dry. That means I wouldn't know the final outcome for at least a half-hour, plenty of time for him to get to the bank with my $50 check.

When it dried, The Other Half didn't say a word. The next day, my co-workers didn't say a word either. You know that's weird. When someone makes a big change in her hair, her co-workers ALWAYS say something about it unless they're living by the if-you-can't-say-something-nice-don't-say-anything-at-all rule.

I finally went to Bonnie The Office Manager, who always speaks the truth no matter how painful.

"How do you like my hair?" I asked.

"Hmmmmm. Did you ask him for the Orphan Annie look?" she replied.

Ouch.

That very night, the smell of perm still wafting around my head, talk-show host Jenny Jones asked her television viewers to call in with the names of people they knew who had "the worst perms ever" so they could be made over on her show. I woke up Mr. Half.

"Call this number! I'll get a free makeover!" I hissed.

"You look fine," he said, rolling over. "I've always had a secret attraction to Bozo the Clown."

I thought about hitting him below the belt with the ever-popular "at least I HAVE hair all over my head" but thought the better of it. Some things you just can't take back.

Moments later, my plan to return to youth through my hairstyle emerged. I remembered those days not so long ago when the frizzier and bigger the hair, the better I liked it.

I told my buddy Steve, who started laughing.

"I remember when girls wore their hair like that," he said. "I was in a club one time and accidentally touched my cigarette to this girl's hair. A little puff of smoke went up, and then there was a quarter-size hole about three inches deep. She just kept right on talking and never noticed a thing."

I still think my plan will work.

I just have to avoid guys like Steve.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who lives in Pensacola, Fla.