I was thirteen when I got my first cosmetic enhancement—a perm. I suffered a burning scalp, a rash on my forehead, and the lingering smell of rotten eggs and ammonia in return for Farah Fawcett-like waves.
I was twenty-three when I paid a beautician to tape a plastic cap to my head, stab at it repeatedly with a crochet hook, and bleach stands of dirty …
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