Crimps, Curls and Coils
Cheyenne Worrell
Hannah Potts
In the fall, Miami’s campus is a beautiful mix of red-brick buildings, sprawling green lawns and trees turning amber. But for me, a curly-haired student, it’s not just about navigating classes and social life – it's about surviving the humidity.
I always try to start my day optimistically, leaving my dorm with fresh curls scented with pineapple creams. I’ve spent a good chunk of my mornings twisting and diffusing my hair, ensuring the coils are defined and springy. There’s always a single brief window – those few perfect moments when I look in the mirror and think, “This might be the day my curls stay flawless.”
I head across Academic Quad towards the Armstrong Student Center and contemplate whether it’s a muffin or protein bar day. But before I even hit the first brick path, I feel it.
That dense, sticky Oxford air grabs at my hair, tugging at my curls like an eager toddler. I can almost hear the frizz crackling, sending my hair levitating upward. The confidence I had when I left my room is fading, and by the time I step into the shade of the Academic Quad entrance, I can feel the once-cooperative coils morphing into something else. Something less defined and much more chaotic.
When I pass other students, I glance at the different hair textures around me. There’s always envy when I see the straight-haired girls – no flyaways, no endless fight against the moisture. Their hair gleams in a perfectly smooth ponytail or falls sleekly down their backs. It’s as if the Miami humidity has no interest in them, but it seems to be in love with my curls, refusing to let them be.
In class, I try to focus on the lecture, but then – lord help me – I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a window. My hair has officially taken on a personality of its own. The definition is gone, and I’m left with a halo of frizz that reminds me of those cotton candy clouds you see at fairs. It’s distracting, to say the least. I pull out a scrunchie and try to gather the mess into a bun, but curly hair doesn’t just "gather," it rebels. Strands stick out in every direction, laughing at me with every tug or attempt to smooth out.
By the time I head back to my dorm, I give up. I’ve already lost. My hair, once a carefully defined crown, is now a fluffy, disobedient and stubborn cloud.
But there’s something else, too – a small sense of pride. Despite the chaos, my curls are a part of me, just like this campus. I’ll wake up tomorrow and do it all again, knowing full well the humidity will win. But for those brief moments, when the curls bounce perfectly, it’s all worth it.
