People always ask for the story behind my bald head. I’ve mastered recounting the short version: “I actually had long locs, and one day a bald spot appeared. It grew and grew; my locs were literally falling out into my hands. A dermatologist told me I had alopecia and offered a bunch of treatment options. I could’ve fought to keep my hair, but it was asking to be let go of. So I let it go.”
When I first made the decision to shave my hair off in 2022, I learned the pros and cons of being bald pretty quickly. It was late fall, so cold weather felt extra brutal. While on the hunt for a cute winter hat, I realized the “one size fits all” label on hats no longer applied to me. Six months later when summertime hit, I felt the scorching sun on the top of my head for the first time and realized my scalp needed SPF. Fashion became weirdly tricky; hair was a lost accessory, I had to retire earrings that no longer complemented my face, and clothes had a different vibe altogether. And this is all notwithstanding the all-out vulnerability of a bare crown.
Despite those minor struggles, I will stand on anybody’s mountaintop and shout my truth: “BEING BALD IS GREAT FOR MY HEALTH!”
Nearly three years into my life-changing choice, I’ve been reflecting on how shaving my head has become my favorite wellness hack—particularly as a Black woman. All my life, my hair had been such an emotional, spiritual and mental journey. It was responsible for my confidence or lack thereof, a tool of self-expression and a conduit to cultural connection. Without it, however, I have become more aware of the money, time, energy and care my hair required for so many years. On any given doom scroll—from stylist horror stories, to product hauls, to DIY tutorials—I find myself sighing with relief.
I can viscerally recall how hard it was to stay active when I had hair. Working out four times a week had the potential to do a number on literally any style: weaves, ponytails, a fresh loc re-twist, braids, or even my natural curls. At some point, I reached the crossroads of prioritization and decided that those HIIT workouts and lift sessions were more important, and I’d just figure out my hair as I went. Sometimes that meant a midweek wash day, other times that meant trying dry shampoo (0/10, would not recommend). Now that I’m bald, however, this has become a non-issue in my life. And in The Year of Our Lord 2025, every non-issue is a win.
Of all the non-issues in my life since going bald, water might be my favorite. As a former member of the “I Can’t Get My Hair Wet” society, I have dodged my fair share of rain, pools, oceans and shower heads. Baldness has delivered me; there is simply no way to overstate the intoxication of standing directly under the flow of water at the perfect temperature and pressure, scalp-first. I can swim when I want or dance in a midday sun shower without a care in the world—which exposes me to the physiological benefits of water to the human body. Without hair, I have more access to swimming as recreational exercise and the scientifically-proven mental health benefits of exposure to rain and other naturally-occurring water.
The mental health benefits of being bald also runneth over into my finances. While we don’t mention our financial health in wellness conversations nearly enough, it is indeed a component. Over the years, the price a Black woman might pay to have her hair done by a professional stylist has multiplied to totals that can still shock an unsuspecting millennial. Whenever I hear about a $400 wig, a $1000 set of micro links or $600 braids, I clutch my chest with relief like that iconic Denzel Washington gif. In a climate where Black women are facing unemployment in record numbers, I feel especially grateful to have the luxury of abandoning the cost of hair styling altogether. I also get to abandon the decision fatigue of choosing a new hairstyle every month or so, bringing a new sense of ease to my monthly monetary and energetic budget.
As Black women all over the world rose up to claim a “soft life” in the face of systems that sought to keep us at the bottom of every totem pole, we all defined the popularized term for ourselves. Some of us began to bask in the calm of slow mornings over a cup of matcha. Others took more vacations and allowed themselves to enjoy the finer things. While the hashtag isn’t as prevalent today, the need for Black women to find a sense of respite continues to swell; every day we are given new reminders of how little regard every other group of people has for our sanctity. To that end, finding freedom in releasing the stressors associated with my hair feels like a revolutionary act.
Who knew hair loss could be a blessing?