Girl, do you need any help? Your braids seem to be working against you!”
The morning mist hadn’t completely dissipated as I trudged up the mountain, stepping on pine needles that crunched softly under my boots, muttering to myself: If I’d known climbing would be this tough, I shouldn’t have bothered with that braided hairstyle in the first place. Last month at the community 5K, my braids unraveled so bad I had to tie them into a lopsided ponytail with a random hair tie I found in my pocket—total embarrassment. Now, after only half an hour of hiking, the braid at my temples had come undone again, strands sticking to my sweaty face in the wind like a messy veil. Just as I was squatting on a mossy rock, yanking at the frizzy ends and mentally cursing my hair choices, a bright, warm voice suddenly called out behind me, “Girl, need any help? That braid looks like it’s fighting you!”
Turning around, I saw a woman in a bright orange windbreaker—so vibrant it popped against the green trees—smiling wide enough to reveal two cute little tiger teeth. But what really stopped me was her hair: big, fluffy curls that bounced like clouds when she moved, each ringlet tight and full of life. The sunlight hit it just right, turning the deep brown strands into something that glowed, like honey mixed with oak. I couldn’t help but gape a little. “Your hair is insane—how does it not flatten or frizz up when you’re hiking?” She laughed, patting my arm like we’d known each other forever, and tossed a strand of curl away from her forehead. “Girl, this ain’t my natural right now—this is a 360 glueless wig belonging to the glueless lace wigs, and let me tell you, it’s a godsend for us with dark brown skin. Look at this HD transparent lace,” she said, tilting her head so I could see the hairline. “It melts right into my scalp—you can’t even see the line, not even in this sunlight. Last month I went to my niece’s birthday party, and my own sister kept touching my hair going, ‘When’d you get such good curl definition?’ She had no clue it was a wig!” She tugged gently at the back, and I could see the little adjustable buckles peeking out. “No glue, none of that messy adhesive that makes your scalp itch. Just clip these bad boys tight, and it stays put—even on the roller coaster at Six Flags last weekend! And it’s breathable, too—you know how our scalps sweat when we’re moving? This lace lets air in, so I don’t get that gross, sticky feeling at the nape of my neck. Feel it,” she said, offering a curl. I reached out, and it was soft—softer than some of my own natural hair—no rough synthetic texture at all. “Feels like the real thing, right? ‘Cause it basically is.”
We fell into step together, hiking slow so we could chat, and when we reached a little clearing with a bench, we stopped to catch our breath and share a granola bar. That’s when she pointed to her curls again, grinning. “These aren’t just any wig curls—they’re custom-made with Burmese curly bundles. 100% Burmese virgin hair, no chemicals, no heat damage. The texture? It’s exactly like our natural curls—you know, that tight, springy coil that holds shape but still moves. I used to buy those cheap synthetic wigs, and UGH—they’d look good for a day, then the curls would drop, or they’d tangle so bad I’d have to cut them. But these bundles? Last week I went camping with my friends—slept in it, woke up, ran my fingers through it, and it was still poppin’. Didn’t even need to reapply product! And when we went swimming in the lake? I thought for sure the curls would go flat, but nope—dried it off, shook my head, and it was right back to this fluffy mess. Oh, and it dyes like a dream!” She pulled out her phone and showed me a photo: her with the same wig, but dyed a deep burgundy that looked rich against her skin. “I did this myself with box dye—no bleach, just color—and it took so evenly. No brassy ends, no patchiness. My old wigs would turn orange or fall apart if I so much as looked at dye, but these bundles? They’re tough as nails.” She twirled around, and the mountain wind caught her curls, making them dance. I found myself smiling—this wasn’t just a wig to her, it was something that made her feel good, even when she was hiking in the middle of nowhere.
By the time we reached the summit, the mist had lifted, and the view was insane: miles of sea of clouds rolling over the mountains, white and soft like cotton candy. We leaned against the railing, staring out, and a gust of wind blew her curls aside for a second—just long enough to see a tiny edge of the lace. But it didn’t look out of place. It looked like it belonged there, like that hair was a part of her, just like her laugh or her bright jacket. She noticed me looking and winked. “Told you it melts in.” I nodded, thinking about all the times I’d skipped out on hikes or outdoor events ‘cause I didn’t want to deal with my hair—braids that unraveled, natural curls that turned into a frizzy mess, wigs that slipped or itched. This felt different. Before we left, she pulled up a website on her phone and showed me the shop where she got it. “Tell ‘em Mya sent you—they’ll hook you up with the right bundle texture for your hair type.” We exchanged numbers, promising to meet up for another hike soon, and when I watched her walk away, her curls bouncing in the wind, I realized something: the best part of this hike wasn’t the view (though it was amazing). It was this—meeting a stranger who felt like a friend, talking about something that matters to us (let’s be real, hair is serious business!), and finding a solution to a problem I’d been dealing with for years. Unexpected beauty isn’t always a sunset or a mountain view. Sometimes it’s a wig that fits just right, a laugh that feels like home, and a reminder that even when you’re struggling with your hair (or anything else), there’s someone out there who gets it—and who’s got the tea on how to fix it. That’s the good stuff, right there.
