Hearing the sizzle of a hot comb on my hair for the very first time was a rite of passage for me. At just eleven years old I sat stiff-necked in a salon chair, with the smell of smoky hair and Blue Magic hair grease in the air. Despite the occasional burns, I was thrilled to get rid of my fuzzy kinks. I’d already bought into to the false notion that straight hair meant “good hair.” Sleek, silky ponytails that bounced were what the boys liked. It was how literally every other girl in my class wore her hair. Meanwhile, I rocked crooked cornrows and thick pigtails with over-the-top hair accessories.
So naturally, I begged my mother to let me perm my hair like everyone else—but she wasn’t having it. Without hesitation, she refused, explaining that the chemicals would make my hair fall out. But thankfully, she did settle for a compromise: letting me get a silk press.
This marked the beginning of a tradition of sorts, where my mom would break out the hot comb (or send me to the salon) for special occasions like picture day or graduation. I became familiar with the burning smell of a greasy hot comb, and I learned fairly quickly that if I wanted this style to last, I had to avoid water like the plague. But it was only a matter of time before the excessive heat took its toll on my strands.
Fast-forward to nearly two decades later, and as I'm watching Oprah Winfrey detail her own experiences with the hot comb on Hulu’s The Hair Tales, I'm struck by the similarities. I’ve perhaps never felt so seen.
