Written by Esther Vese
They say a sudden change in a woman’s hair—cutting it all off, dyeing it a bold colour—is often a sign she’s going through something. Maybe. Maybe I was going through a lot. Life gave lemons, and I took a bite. The thing about lemons, though, is that the sourness eventually fades. It’s just that brief, painful moment between bite and fade that really tests you.
I’ve cut my hair three times in two years. Why? Just a whole lot of lemons. Cutting it off felt like the only thing I could control, and, to be honest, I’d rather people think I had a chic buzz cut than wonder if I was slowly unravelling under a neglected, unkempt afro. The funny thing? Every single time I cut it, my hair grew back fast. But now? I wouldn’t dare. I’m older, more stressed, still trying to be “reasonably” healthy, and I just don’t have the heart to gamble with my hairline like that anymore.
It’s not depression, I promise—it’s just that some salon experiences are so traumatic they make you want to start over.
I thought I was making a sensible choice. Faux locs? Low maintenance, stylish, protective… what could go wrong? Well, in exactly one week, I found out. My scalp wasn’t sore from tight braiding—it just felt heavy. Like I was carrying a full-grown toddler on my head. That’s a violation of one of the sacred 3 E’s of protective styling: Easy on the scalp!
So, I walked into a salon and said, Take it out. The stylist did as I asked… and also took out chunks of my actual hair in the process. She had crocheted the extensions in so tightly that when she cut the locs, she accidentally cut my hair too. I was so shocked, I kept the fallen hair in a plastic bag for a week like some sort of grief ritual.
A few months later, I tried Ghana weaving. This time, I was extra careful—I made sure the stylist followed the 3 E’s (Easy on the scalp, easy on the strands, easy to take down). I just wanted my hair neatly tucked away for about a month. But by week three, I started noticing something disturbing: my strands were literally lifting out from the roots like they were staging a protest. My edges—the most fragile, precious part of my hair—were under attack!
I didn’t even wait a full day. That hair came out immediately. I love the look of Ghana weaving, but some betrayals you just don’t recover from.
Now, let me confess—I avoid heat like it’s a tax collector. But I recently stretched my hair with heat (yes, I used a heat protectant). It felt amazing—soft, bouncy, and easy to style. For once, I could actually put it into a bun without an arm workout. And I thought, yes! I’ll do it one more time this weekend but by myself and at medium heat!
Then, life threw a curveball: that weekend, I had company. A guy. And for some reason, I thought it would be cute to let him blow-dry my hair for me. Listen, it was a sweet moment. He was so gentle, so focused—it almost felt romantic. Almost.
Until I realised: never let a man use your hair to learn how to handle natural hair.
