Warm greetings to the discerning reader,
In 2022, after writing JAMB, I learned that admission would not come until the following year. Time suddenly became heavy. A year that had no clear direction sat before me, and staying idle was not an option. A family friend suggested I learn a skill, something practical, something that would not waste the waiting season. My first desire was drug patent training, preferably in a pharmacy, a space I had always admired. The cost, however, shut that door quickly. Computer skills followed as a second option, but even that was far beyond what could be afforded.
Hair styling was not a dream, not even a mild interest. It was suggested because it was available, affordable, and immediate. I resisted it silently. The thought of standing for long hours, bending over heads, and working with my hands all day did not appeal to me at all. Still, pressure has its own voice. My mother’s words were simple and firm: “Do it. It is still something.” Passion was suspended. Time was already moving.
I entered the salon with reluctance. Learning under pressure is not gentle. Every mistake felt louder because I did not love the process. Braiding, fixing, parting, holding styles for too long—it was tiring, both physically and mentally. Yet repetition slowly softened the resistance. My hands began to remember what my heart initially rejected. Clients came. Heads were made, not perfectly, but sincerely.
I did not complete the full eighteen months. Admission came after eight months, and I had to leave halfway. Still, within that short time, I gained something solid. I learned discipline, patience, and the quiet pride of creating with my hands. I may not be a professional, but the skill lives with me now, stitched into my story, proof that even unwanted lessons can still teach something lasting.
And I won't forget to add, ,this skill has taken me to places.
All images are original and mine and yes they are made by me
