I got my silk press three days ago. My knotless braids were getting way too old, and once I saw that more than an inch of hair had grown in, I knew it was time. It took me longer than most to make that decision for two reasons. First, I hate figuring out what to do with my hair by myself. Growing up, that was my mom’s problem. Second, I hate spending money. Especially on my hair. I hate spending money on shampoo and conditioner, hate spending money to have the stylist blow-dry and straighten it. You may be asking why I don’t do it myself. The truth is: I never learned how to and I don’t feel like learning at the moment. So, tired of waking up with stiff braids and seeing my roots growing out, I decided to get a silk press.
If you don’t know, a silk press for Black hair is a flat iron session where your hair is pressed straight enough to move, bounce, and lay down without chemicals. It gives a straight-hair aesthetic without the long-term damage of a relaxer. The downside? One drop of water, one night of sweating, one gust of humid wind and it’s over.
I wouldn’t even try to do it myself. Flat-ironing and blow-drying hair is complicated and requires a level of technical skill that I don’t have. I sent a message in Curly Cuties, the GroupMe for Black hair at U-M: “Does anyone have good recommendations for affordable silk press?” Yes, I forgot the ‘an’, I was in a rush. With only about 2% of students at the University of Michigan being Black women, Curly Cuties is sacred. In a community where everyone is just trying to survive and maintain their hair, that group chat has come through for Black women time and time again — connecting them with affordable hair-care recommendations and appointments.
I got a quick response for a $51 silk press, which is insanely cheap. I just needed to come washed and conditioned, which is perfect because I don’t have a blow dryer. At the same time, I knew washing my curly Black hair in a Predominantly White Institution, also known as a PWI, dorm shower would not be an easy feat. It’s small, and a lot of my hair would be coming out, probably ending up getting stuck around the drains and leading to complaints. So I ordered shampoo and conditioner and went for the sink in the laundry room … which only has freezing cold water.
I privately messaged the stylist, booked the appointment, washed and conditioned my hair and took the bus to North Campus, where the stylist lives. For the first 24 hours after my appointment, I was feeling myself. My hair was soft, straight, swishy — it was giving health and effort, and it felt great to be able to bend down without my long braids touching the floor. I was walking through campus like I was in a slow-motion movie montage. The thing about a silk press is that it’s always on the edge of betrayal. So I did what I always do: packed two shower caps and an umbrella in my book bag, just in case. Because when you have a silk press, the weather is not your friend. It’s your enemy.
Still, Michigan had other plans. One sweaty night with no air conditioning and a walk to class through heavy humidity was all it took. My roots puffed up like they were reclaiming their identity. By the second day, my beautiful press had transformed into a soft blowout with attitude. My $51 + $4 for a tip and straight hair were gone. My dreams of making it to summer break with this style? Shattered.
I should’ve expected it. Hair has always been a big topic in my life. I remember my sister getting perms when we were younger. She did basketball, volleyball and gymnastics, so a perm made it easier to deal with her hair between practices. No detangling, no puffed-up ponytails, just quick and straight. At the time, I didn’t really question it. It was just what you did. My mom did my brother’s hair for a few years, and eventually he started going to a Black barber shop. Meanwhile, I was sitting in between my mom’s legs every weekend getting braids, leaving with an oiled up scalp that was ready to withstand whatever sweat came its way.
Now, as an adult, it’s still one of the biggest stressors in my life when I don’t have knotless braids in. Knotless braids are simple and easy. I get them done in Chicago during winter and summer breaks. I come with my hair washed and blowdried, and I leave with a protective hairstyle that requires very little care to maintain. Still, I talk to other Black girls on campus about hair all the time. I got them for the first time because of the Summer Bridge Scholars Program; I needed hair that I wouldn’t sweat out and could last all summer. Black hair takes up so much energy — emotionally, financially, mentally. Some in-state girls go home and have their moms do their hair. Others are nearly cosmetology certified in my book and do everything themselves in their dorm or apartment bathroom. A few stick to long-term braids or locs. Some just shave it all off and start over, which I completely understand. Managing your hair while also balancing classes, work and being visibly Black on this PWI campus takes a large toll on a person.
What makes it harder is that people who don’t have to think about their hair every day love to give their unsolicited opinions. I’ve worn my bonnet in lounging areas or while just walking to the laundry room and gotten, “What’s that thing on your head?” like I’m walking around with a costume on. I’ve taken my braids out and had people ask, “Why’d you cut your hair? It looked so good before.” I’ve talked to people who’ve had their natural hair called “nappy” or their box braids “ghetto.”
I just want to wear my hair how I want and not have to explain it every single time. But that’s the reality of being a Black woman in predominantly white spaces: Even your hair becomes a political statement. This silk press was supposed to be a little peace offering to myself. A break. But instead, it turned into a reminder that my hair is going to do what it wants to do. And sometimes, all I can do is follow its lead.
One of the things I love most about Black hair is how incredibly versatile and unique it is. No two curl patterns are exactly the same, and yet there’s beauty in every coil, kink and wave. Our hair can transform — it can be big and bold one day, laid and sleek the next. It’s expressive, personal, cultural and creative all at once. Black hair tells a story without saying a word. It reflects mood, heritage, survival and joy. The freedom to shape it in so many ways is something I’ve grown to cherish, even on the frustrating days. There’s nothing like seeing someone with a style that’s entirely their own and the smile on their face that comes with an inevitable compliment.
Right now, I’m sitting with a sweated-out silk press and a choice: Do I try to calm it down and further damage it with a flat iron from Amazon and a thin comb? Do I get it redone even though I have two weeks left on this rainy and humid campus? Do I just say ‘forget it’ and let my nappy, curly hair live before I get back to Chicago so my mom can braid it?
Whatever I decide, I know one thing for sure: Black hair is beautiful. But whew, it’s a full-time job.
MiC Columnist Nicolette Bennett can be reached at nicbenn@umich.edu
