Patti is an incredible writer...all of my children are exceptional writers (ok I'm prejudiced but that's the way I see it and this is my blog!!) Patti's style is unique...funny, sassy, a bit sarcastic. I hope anyone who reads this knows she adored her great grandma and was poking a little fun...and stretching details a bit for the telling!! (writer's license is the term!!) We laughed and laughed at this so I'm sharing it (she and I disagree on the use of the word hell but I'm allowing it for this story...)
Sponge Curlers from Hell
By: Patti Sheridan
I used to hate Easter. Hate it hate it hate it. Keep your darn painted eggs and your darn Easter Bunny. None of the candy in that basket on Easter morning was worth having to go through the torture my great grandmother, Ninna, put me through.
Now don’t get me wrong, I loved the woman, God rest her soul, but she had a dark side (most Grandmothers do). A dark side that she so viciously inflicted upon me and my siblings every Easter…but mostly me.
I remember driving to Summerton dreading what inevitably waited for me there at the little white house with the picket fence and perfectly manicured lawn. My Ninna would greet each of us with a hug, a “Hello dahlin’”, and a remark on our appearance. Most grandmas normally might exclaim something along the lines of “Look how big you’ve gotten!” and maybe pinch a cheek or two. Ninna was not unlike these grandmas until she came to me.
I was a tomboy growing up. This was a sin equal to murder in Ninna’s eyes! She would turn up her nose at my dirty fingernails my mother had begged me to wash, she would shake her head at my tangly hair my mother had attempted to drag a comb through, and she would be disgusted by my skinned up knees, my bruised elbows, and my dirty tennis shoes. Basically, I was the devil at seven years old.
Especially in comparison to my sister, who was perfect. Oh such a lady! Her posture! Her poise! Her beauty! Her sparkly pink nail polish! No thank you. I preferred to slouch, follow my brothers around the neighborhood, climb trees, scrape my knees, and forget to wash my hands. Unfortunately my poor mother got crap from Ninna about it too. She would fuss at her for not raising a “lady” and vow to teach me what one was before Easter supper the next day.
I know what your thinking… “How could this get any worse?!” Oh believe me, the worst is yet to come.
That night after supper, Ninna would put me in the bath. She cleaned behind my ears, washed my hair (got probably more shampoo in my eyes than on my actual head), took a nail brush and brutally scrubbed my fingers until they bled, and then pulled me out, dried me off and sprinkled an entire bottle of baby powder all over me.
After this humiliating ordeal was over, and I was safely inside my pjs, she dragged me into her room with my darling sister and pulled out the sponge curlers.
This is the climax people, listen up.
I cannot express how much I hated those sponge curlers. Number one, my hair would be so tangly that before she even started putting them in, she’d have to literally (almost) rip all my hair out trying to comb through it. Number two, she pulled my hair so tight in those things that I felt like the skin on my forehead was gonna tear off at any moment. Tears would stream down my face for the entire twenty minutes it took to put those evil things in. I would cry myself to sleep after probably an hour or two of praying the pain would stop.
Then, after all that suffering, the morning came, and everything would get even worse. Ninna would go to remove the curlers from my sister’s hair, and, doiiing, her hair would be in perfect, angelic ringlets. Ninna would remove my curlers, and my hair would maybe curl limply for about twenty minutes, but then it would just be frizzy.
And what would Ninna do? She would yell at ME! She would accuse me of taking out the curlers in the middle of the night! Yes as if a seven year old would be capable of taking them out and putting them back in all by themself. Whatever.
Then my siblings and I would gather in the horrific Easter outfits Ninna had bought each of us and we’d take the most embarrassing pictures known to man, in all of which I would look like I wanted to kill someone.
Looking back, it’s all kinda funny, and I really miss my Ninna. Especially around Easter time. One time I tried putting sponge curlers in just for old times sake, but even after 8 years they still got all tangled and caught in my hair and made me look like a frizzy poodle who put their finger in an electrical socket. Hmmm…maybe they really are from hell.
By: Patti Sheridan
I used to hate Easter. Hate it hate it hate it. Keep your darn painted eggs and your darn Easter Bunny. None of the candy in that basket on Easter morning was worth having to go through the torture my great grandmother, Ninna, put me through.
Now don’t get me wrong, I loved the woman, God rest her soul, but she had a dark side (most Grandmothers do). A dark side that she so viciously inflicted upon me and my siblings every Easter…but mostly me.
I remember driving to Summerton dreading what inevitably waited for me there at the little white house with the picket fence and perfectly manicured lawn. My Ninna would greet each of us with a hug, a “Hello dahlin’”, and a remark on our appearance. Most grandmas normally might exclaim something along the lines of “Look how big you’ve gotten!” and maybe pinch a cheek or two. Ninna was not unlike these grandmas until she came to me.
I was a tomboy growing up. This was a sin equal to murder in Ninna’s eyes! She would turn up her nose at my dirty fingernails my mother had begged me to wash, she would shake her head at my tangly hair my mother had attempted to drag a comb through, and she would be disgusted by my skinned up knees, my bruised elbows, and my dirty tennis shoes. Basically, I was the devil at seven years old.
Especially in comparison to my sister, who was perfect. Oh such a lady! Her posture! Her poise! Her beauty! Her sparkly pink nail polish! No thank you. I preferred to slouch, follow my brothers around the neighborhood, climb trees, scrape my knees, and forget to wash my hands. Unfortunately my poor mother got crap from Ninna about it too. She would fuss at her for not raising a “lady” and vow to teach me what one was before Easter supper the next day.
I know what your thinking… “How could this get any worse?!” Oh believe me, the worst is yet to come.
That night after supper, Ninna would put me in the bath. She cleaned behind my ears, washed my hair (got probably more shampoo in my eyes than on my actual head), took a nail brush and brutally scrubbed my fingers until they bled, and then pulled me out, dried me off and sprinkled an entire bottle of baby powder all over me.
After this humiliating ordeal was over, and I was safely inside my pjs, she dragged me into her room with my darling sister and pulled out the sponge curlers.
This is the climax people, listen up.
I cannot express how much I hated those sponge curlers. Number one, my hair would be so tangly that before she even started putting them in, she’d have to literally (almost) rip all my hair out trying to comb through it. Number two, she pulled my hair so tight in those things that I felt like the skin on my forehead was gonna tear off at any moment. Tears would stream down my face for the entire twenty minutes it took to put those evil things in. I would cry myself to sleep after probably an hour or two of praying the pain would stop.
Then, after all that suffering, the morning came, and everything would get even worse. Ninna would go to remove the curlers from my sister’s hair, and, doiiing, her hair would be in perfect, angelic ringlets. Ninna would remove my curlers, and my hair would maybe curl limply for about twenty minutes, but then it would just be frizzy.
And what would Ninna do? She would yell at ME! She would accuse me of taking out the curlers in the middle of the night! Yes as if a seven year old would be capable of taking them out and putting them back in all by themself. Whatever.
Then my siblings and I would gather in the horrific Easter outfits Ninna had bought each of us and we’d take the most embarrassing pictures known to man, in all of which I would look like I wanted to kill someone.
Looking back, it’s all kinda funny, and I really miss my Ninna. Especially around Easter time. One time I tried putting sponge curlers in just for old times sake, but even after 8 years they still got all tangled and caught in my hair and made me look like a frizzy poodle who put their finger in an electrical socket. Hmmm…maybe they really are from hell.
Patti's sponge curled hair Ninna's pretty room Easter 1997
4 comments:
Oh goodness...that made me laugh, and almost cry too. I was indeed the perfect sister with the perfect hair and amazingly I have wonderful memories of sponge curlers, but I'm sure Beth will agree more with Patti! Beth hated when we had to get our hair rolled for sisters day with LouLou. I miss those days so much! Patti...you are a good writer, its funny to hear your version of Easter, mine would be quite different. But hey, I guess that's because I'm perfect lady lol! But I enjoyed your story...thanks mom for sharing!
that was awesome writing -except for the bad word :o) - I wish I could write well! I LOVE sponge curlers - I used to beg my mom to put them in my hair at least once a week, so I could be beautiful at school!
Patti, you truly got your mother's ability as a 'story'-teller! The curlers were not THAT bad! :)
(My hair post curler night was like yours - limp curls - but mine didn't frizz, it just fell out like she'd never curled it.) I like someone to play with my hair, so I didn't mind her putting them in, I just hated the look 20 minutes after she took them out. All that effort for nothing. (So, I learned to use a curling iron!)
I miss Ninna. I'd put in sponge curlers right now if she could be here so I could let her see my twin girls!
agree with Beth. There's not much I wouldn't do to have those Summerton days with Ninna and Granddaddy back!
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