jenni africa

I was an adult when I learned that my cuzens, upon receiving school photos from my third grade year, dubbed me "Jenni Africa." As an adult I find this label hilarious and creative, and just a bit politically incorrect. As a third grader, there was nothing funny about this photo.

Clearly I was not exactly an attractive kid - my teeth pushed out by my constant thumb sucking, my sense of style sorely lacking even for the seventies, freckles dusted generously across my pale skin making me appear permanently dirty. And lord knows my hair, if you could even classify my stringy threads as hair, did not need any help appearing pathetic. Ah, but it was, after all, the seventies and my mom had an itching to try out those new fangled home perms. Lilt was the brand name. Wilt would have been more accurate.

I don't blame Lilt and I no longer blame my mom. It was an honest mistake, failing to properly align my hair before placing it into the rollers and forcing into submission with the stinging chemicals that smelled of sour apples. And when she realized how horribly wrong her little experiment had gone, my mother immediately washed my hair - something you'd avoid doing for a couple of days if you wanted to preserve the effects of your new style. But clearly there was no saving me. My sister, "Suzie Africa," suffered a similar fate, though her heartier hair was (in my opinion, not hers) measurably less fried. While the difference seemed so significant to me, I know she was equally scarred.

I am now grateful this happened the day before picture day. Without the photo evidence, this story is only slightly funny, easily exaggerated. With the photo, it is a timeless cautionary tale, a reminder that certain projects are never "do it yourself." Some professionals are worth paying for - plumbers, electricians, auto mechanics, doctors, lawyers, hair stylists.