I had foam curlers that you had to clasp on one end after rolling wet hair onto it. (You, as in the general you, not the boy 'you' because boys don't curl their hair, so I guess I mean the general GIRL 'you', in which case I should have just wrote 'girls', instead of 'you', but I am not wanting to offend boys who DO curl their hair, because maybe, I don't know, there are a few of those out there, and there is such a high likelihood that they would read this.)
Back to the foam, here. They were pink. The cylindrical foam that you wrapped the hair around and the plastic clasp that framed the foam and connected at the one end were pink. I put a ton (okay, well maybe not a TON) of them in my hair one afternoon in the hopes that I could put a luscious and luxurious body of curls into my otherwise normally straight (bland, blah, brown) hair. I had entire afternoon to waste. I had time to let my hair dry.
In the meantime and without a hair dryer (without? or absent-minded enough to not think of using one? hmmm...) I started to lip sync with the radio. Joan Jett came on and I poured my ever-lovin', rockin' heart out into her lyrics. "I hate myself for lovin' youuuuu!...." On the bed, crouching down, hopping off, microphone (brush) in hand. Performing to a huge, sold-out crowd (ten or fifteen stuffed animals) on a well-lit stage (pastel-colored bed.) I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny vanity on my desk coming down on a beat, mid-angst-cringe. I was absolutely horrified to see the pink curlers flopping against my angry face, sickly pale and splattered with freckles and brown eyes that I couldn't get away from.
I stopped. Party over. Total rocker kill.
But it passed. I rocked it out to the end, I took my curlers out, and looked something more like this.