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Terri Hunter

Our humorous contributor has informed us that she has run out of food-related stories to tell, and she also admitted that she’s really not much of a foodie. However, her quirky, comical tales about life growing up in Macon County are way too entertaining to pass up. So, we have altered the name of her column just a bit and we will continue to offer up a healthy dose of Terri Hunter’s remembrances as long as she keeps sharing them with Macon Sense. Enjoy!

Is there anyone out there who has not been inconvenienced because of hair? I, personally, have been through many trials and tribulations because of it.

I was told I had long hair as a young child until I refused to sit still for my mama to comb it. I’m suspecting tangles encouraged that reaction, so Mama, being a problem solver, had my hair cut short. That was fine with me. 

Regular beauty salon appointments, however, were a luxury we just could not afford. Barber shops weren’t as expensive, so my brother always looked well groomed. It was me with the untamed locks that was the problem. 

So, I grew up with sorta wind-blown, tangled, non-compliant hair. Occasional visits to Pearl Mashburn, who had a salon on Main Street, along with a yearly session with my Aunt Helen, who had graduated from beauty school, kept me looking somewhat presentable.

I was such a hair wreck that when the new beautician in town came to demonstrate hair care to our Girl Scout troop, I was unanimously selected by my peers to be the model.

Later, when my friends were spraying Summer Blonde into their hair and rolling it regularly, I still did not get with the program. My high school pictures bear that out.

Then I went to college. It was the ’70s. Short hair ceased to exist. Everyone I knew, male or female, had long tresses, including me. For four years I wore my hair pulled back to the base of my skull into what was affectionately called a George, since George Washington wore it best. It was heinous.

After I graduated, I had my hair cut by a man who had a salon in Sylva. He was all the rage, but what I remember most is that he smelled like sweat and Jade East. And, so, my hair was short once again. Those who had to look at me probably breathed a sigh of relief.

About that time, I got a call from one of my besties who said her sister had finished her beauty course and was working at a salon in town and needed some clients. And, as they say, “The rest is history.” For almost 50 years we have remained faithful to each other — through thick and thin. 

My hair looks the best the minute I walk out of her shop. Too bad I remain disinterested in the process that gets the desired results.