A perm is a funny thing. Its soft, shapely curls have the ability to accentuate only your greatest of features. But if left under the dryer too long, it can resurrect awkward, uneasy sentiments of your adolescence when you could neither control nor understand your outward appearance. A perm is the best of times, and it is the worst of times. For me, it is also a memory. Of a woman, specifically, named Kathy. She lived 58 wonderful years before cancer got the upper hand. But that third chair from the door, in that familiar salon, will always be Kathy’s.
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