In 2018, my husband and I decided it was time to leave New York City. Captivated by a 1720s New England country home, we moved to a place made up of long winding country roads, the annual strawberry festival, and Christmas tree farms—but still able to access the city through the Metro North for holiday visits to Lincoln Center and spring seasons of the City Ballet. But during the closing, it slowly hit me: where would I go for my weekly silk press? Before this, I spent my life cradled within Black communities—born in the Black mecca of Atlanta, living for years in Harlem—surrounded by salons that knew how to care for my hair texture. Like many Black women, hair care has been a monthly line item. Now a racial minority in my town, I’m navigating my way through a Black hair care desert.
A few years into homeownership, a mid-pandemic cancer diagnosis (while I was pregnant) altered my hair texture. I went from building a family to early-stage four breast cancer practically overnight—and because the disease had traveled to my liver, instead of IV chemo, I’m on a lifetime supply of oral chemo. Caring for my hair now had a new layer of complexity: It had changed from the curls I had known my entire life to something that was even perplexing to me.
Enthusiastic for a countryside expedition, I set off to find a local stylist by heatmapping Vagaro listings, mining #silkpress on social media sites, keeping my eyes open for the “curly hair expert” in a predominantly white salon, and analyzing client photos in hopes of seeing my texture. After pulling out the salons with the best reviews, I turned to old-fashion phone calling—but no luck (and even a bit of aggression, as replies included “We don’t have anyone on staff who can do your hair” or “No, we don’t do ‘ethnic’ hair.”) When a new salon founded by two celebrated master stylists opened just up the road, I felt like luck was finally on my side. But when I called to inquire, my excitement was met with a loose invitation to “see” what could be done with my hair. (It also left me wondering: Can one be a “master hairstylist” if all hair textures haven’t been mastered?)
This wasn’t the first time I had been unable to find a salon where I lived. New York City definitely has its own share of Black hair care deserts, but most salons would attempt to do my hair. New England: not even an attempt.
In this desert, evenings are spent barefoot in the bathroom, wet hair dripping down my back and arms, while I attempt blowouts, braids, and Bantu knots. YouTube and TikTok connected me to tutorial videos, teaching me how to achieve a blowout, and a silk-ish press that lasted one day. Other mistakes were made, too: I tried to “chase the heat” using a rat-tail comb, only to realize that plastic would melt, leaving burnt bits stuck throughout. At times, I felt minimally empowered, at others, incredibly frustrated (after all, a silk press is a simple hair service in the grand scheme of things).
Occasionally, I still try to find a salon in town to call home. If I make it all the way to the shampoo bowl, the results still leave a lot to be desired. I’m back to scheduling silk press appointments to correspond with my 100-mile round trip visits to Manhattan (my salon is in Chelsea), where I’ve seen them expand their ability to care for African American, textured, thick, dense hair with educated stylists. Hopefully soon when it comes to my town, and this gold coast desert landscape will transform into an oasis.
