I have never had a good relationship with salons. In fact, they have been the stuff of nightmares for me since I was a little girl. I still remember the weekly routine my mother insisted on, where we would march into the salon to tame my wild, brownish, and thin hair, which, according to her, needed constant upkeep to maintain its "pure health." But to me, that salon was a battlefield. The stylists pulling, tugging, scorching my scalp with blazing hot combs, and the inferno of the blow-dryer—it was pure agony. I hated every moment of it, and my tears were often a part of the process.

There was one day, a day that will live in infamy in my childhood memory. They were halfway through braiding my hair, the pain unbearable, and I could not take it anymore. Without a second thought, I bolted. I ran from the salon like my scalp was on fire—because it might as well have been. I dashed straight to my mother’s workplace, which was nearby and hid under a table. When she found out what had happened, she and the hair stylists formed a search party. There I was, crouching beneath a desk, thinking I had outsmarted them, but they found me. Together, they chased me through the maze of stores in the local market until they finally cornered me. My mother, wise and understanding, allowed me a moment to calm down and 'bribed' me with chips (fries) and sausages. The hair stylists, in her presence, promised they would not hurt me again. But I was skeptical, and rightfully so.

Another memorable encounter occurred when I was eleven. My father was dropping my sister and me off at the salon on a Saturday—our sentence that weekend. The school’s compulsory hairstyle was cornrows, and oh, how I despised them. Unlike braids, which at least spread the pain over time, cornrows inflicted torture from the front to the back of the head in one relentless motion. That day, as I tried to detangle my 4C hair with a comb that refused to cooperate, I knew the salon would only make it worse. So, mid-drive, I told my father I wanted to go to the barbershop instead. I wanted to shave it all off.

He was shocked, as was my sister, but I was determined. He called my mother who after a brief back-and-forth, agreed to let me make the decision. I stepped into that barbershop and felt an exhilarating sense of freedom as the hair fell away. Come Monday, the entire school buzzed with the news: I had chopped off all my hair. Some laughed, some were shocked, and some, bless their hearts, welcomed me to the "club." My teachers too chimed in with their opinions, but I did not care. I had broken free—or so I thought.

The catch was, I still had to comb my hair daily. And let me tell you, combing 4C hair every day was a whole new level of pain. It was not long before I realized this was no easy way out. I was not about to go bald, so I endured the daily struggle as my hair grew back, wild and thick.

By the time I turned 12, I had grown out my hair and permed it, a temporary fix before high school came knocking. High school though was a blessing in disguise. My aunt recommended a girls' school where—get this—shaving was mandatory. My parents thought I would resist but I welcomed it with open arms. No hair, no pain, no problem. For the next four years, I lived blissfully free of combs and hair maintenance, my scalp breathing easy, while our formidable veteran principal, herself sporting a shaved head, ruled the school.

Once high school ended, I experimented—blowouts, perm kits, weaves. But as the years passed, the health of my hair began to decline. That’s when I decided to go back to natural hair. Campus life became a parade of braids, weaves sewn over cornrows, faux locs—anything to avoid dealing with my hair daily. I even tried crocheting, wigs, and every style that could hide my 4C curls from the daily assault of a comb.

Now, my salon trips are less about vanity and more about survival. My routine involves unbraiding, a hair treatment, the dreaded dryer, and an even more dreaded blow-dry. Everyone at the salon knows I hate blow-dry. The pain is unreal. But once I am through the torture, I settle into my braids, cornrows (under protest), or crochet styles. The goal: never let my natural hair see the light of day.

My mother often asks why I do not wear my natural hair out—it’s long, black, healthy, and beautiful, she says. My answer is always the same: the pain is just too much. Maybe one day I shall be brave enough to let it out, even if just for a week. When that day comes, you will all be the first to know. Until then, I’ll stick to the styles that keep me far from the comb. Because, my friends, 4C hair? It is no joke. It makes even the toughest of girls cry.

And no, don’t you dare play Fergie’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” You know better. Haha!