The Moment I Stopped Using Heat on Damp Hair
Scene I — Miami Lakes, Florida · September 2025
There I was, walking through the hallways of a high school I was visiting, having a grand, marvelous time—thinking everything was perfect.
My hair was freshly done. I thought every i was dotted and all t’s were crossed.
A few hours later, I was reviewing the footage.
I shrieked in pure disbelief and asked my princess if my eyes were seeing correctly.
“Is that a hole?!”
Scene II — Playback
I watched the clip Princess had recorded of me multiple times—shock, disbelief, silence.
Then I had her take a picture of the back of my head to confirm it.
And there it was.
A large, gaping hole in the length of my hair, causing the opposite sides of my silk press to fall like a dreaded H.
This was not intentional.
Nor deliberate.
This was sabotage.
But how?
Scene III — Investigation
For weeks, I combed over every detail of what could have gone wrong.
At first, I blamed a low ponytail I wore every so often—but it wasn’t that.
Then one day, while flat-ironing my hair, I noticed how straw-like it felt in the middle nape area.
And it dawned on me.
I had been flat-ironing damp hair.
For months.
Scene IV — The Flaw
I had developed a pristine air-drying system.
My hair was thriving—luscious, strong, alive.
I was well on my way to waist-length hair, then tailbone length.
But sometimes—maybe most times—I rushed the air-drying process just a little, thinking nothing of it.
The system became flawed the moment I convinced myself it was okay if the center of my hair felt slightly damp.
It was not.
Scene V — Acceptance
I made the decision to wear my hair to the side, or to avoid silk presses unless they were finished with bountiful curls to disguise the damage.
Then one day in November, after freshly washing my hair, I did the silkiest silk press and planned to curl it for my grandmother’s birthday dinner.
I asked Princess to take another picture.
The H had grown more profound.
I shook my head.
This confusion had to go.
Scene VI — The Cut
One of my mom’s friends—a hairstylist—was already at the house for the birthday festivities.
I ran to her with a long-tail comb and a pair of shears and kindly asked her to do away with it.
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
The H was gone.
I went from armpit-length hair to a bob—and I was entirely grateful.
I stepped outside and took a breath like never before.
Freedom was mine.
And I would never have to learn the same way again.