Help! My Hair is Falling Out

Natasha stood in front of the mirror, fingers sliding through what was left of her hair. Thin. Limp. Lifeless. Each strand that came away with her touch felt like a quiet betrayal. Her once big, bouncy mane—that thick, juicy crown that used to turn heads on the high street—was now a shadow of itself. A tired little puff clinging to the memory of better days.

She tilted her head to the side, frowning as she inspected the sparse patches near her temples. Nah. This ain't normal. She knew her hair, and this... this was something else.

As she stood there, in the soft morning light of her bathroom, she let her mind drift. Back to a year ago. Before all this mess started.

That’s when it hit her—the only real change she'd made. The new salon.

It had seemed like a blessing at first. The place was stunning, all pink and beige tones, straight outta Pinterest. Plush velvet chairs, gold-rimmed mirrors, complimentary herbal teas with names she couldn’t pronounce—boujee vibes, you know? But it wasn’t just the décor. The whole atmosphere was peaceful. No bassline rattling the windows, no auntie cussing someone out mid-styling. Just calm music, soft chats, and stylists that actually respected your edges.

And customer service? Impeccable. They greeted her with a smile, asked if she wanted oat milk in her tea, and actually kept to her appointment time. None of that "just sit down, I’ll be with you in a minute" that turned into two hours and a headache.

She’d found her spot. Every month like clockwork, she’d go for her deep condition and silk press. A little reset. A little self-care.

Things were sweet for the first six months. Until that day.

She was just getting up from Opal’s chair, smoothing her hands over her freshly pressed strands, when her husband walked in to pick her up. He stepped inside, looked right at her, and smiled like she’d hung the stars. “Wow,” he said, loud enough for the whole salon to hear. “You look stunning, babe.” Then—as if that wasn't enough—he reached into his wallet, pulled out a crisp note and handed it to Opal. “Thanks for taking care of my queen,” he added, giving the stylist a firm nod.

Natasha had smiled, blushed even. But something about Opal’s face stuck with her. The way her eyes narrowed slightly, just for a second. The way her lips pressed together in that tight, unreadable smile.

Opal had always been a bit... reserved. A heavy-set Black woman in her early fifties, with skin like polished mahogany and hands that moved like they knew every curl, kink, and coil by heart. Natasha only ever booked with her—she was very intentional about who laid hands on her hair. And Opal had never let her down.

She was polite, always. But distant. When Natasha tried to make small talk, Opal would answer with the bare minimum. Never laughed too loud. Never shared much.

Maybe she’s just shy, Natasha used to tell herself. Not everyone’s bubbly. And besides, Opal was a good listener. Always asking about her day, her stress levels, her kids (even though Natasha ain’t got none), her work, and—most of all—her husband.

At first, Natasha thought it was sweet. Like maybe Opal was trying to look out for her. Be a big sister figure, drop some wisdom from her years in the game. But over time... things started to feel off. The questions got a bit too personal. The way Opal’s eyes lingered when she spoke about her man. The way she’d go quiet, like she was filing the answers away somewhere.

That’s when the dots started to connect.

And Natasha didn’t like the picture it was painting.

That night, Natasha sat cross-legged on her bed, lights dim, palms open. She closed her eyes and whispered into the silence.

“Heavenly Father… I know you see everything. Nothing gets past you, Lord. Please—show me what’s going on. Show me why my hair’s falling out. Reveal it in a dream. In Jesus’ name… amen.”

With that, she slid under the duvet and let sleep take her. And like someone flipping a switch, she was gone—out cold. Slept like a baby. No tossing, no turning, just deep, heavy rest. Then the dream came.

She was standing inside a house. It was immaculate—floors shining, not a cushion out of place. The whole space had that polished, just-cleaned kind of smell. But there was something off. Bugs. Everywhere. Creeping across the walls, buzzing through the air, even mice darting under furniture.

Nah. This don’t make no sense.

How could a house be spotless yet so full of filth?

Then, from the corner of her vision, Natasha clocked someone walking into a bedroom.

It was Opal. The house was hers.

Opal strolled across the room to a dresser that had been turned into a kind of altar. On it sat a polaroid photo—Natasha’s face smiling back. Her heart jumped.

Wait… that’s me. She recognised the photo straight away. Opal had taken it months ago, said it was for her portfolio—“to show off different styles,” she’d said. But here it was now, bent clean down the middle like someone had tried to snap her in two. Beside it was a tiny bunch of hair—her hair. She knew it deep in her bones. It must’ve come from a previous appointment. The thought made her sick.

Opal lit an incense stick, the smoke curling into the air. She started chanting.

“She will die… he will divorce her… she will lose her beauty… she will be ugly… her destiny, favour, and blessings—mine.”

Natasha jolted upright in bed, chest rising fast, her shirt stuck to her back with sweat.

It was confirmation. The Lord had shown her exactly what had been happening. This wasn’t just hair falling out. This was spiritual warfare.

Opal was jealous. She’d been working witchcraft—quiet, wicked, behind-the-scenes kind of evil. It made sense now: the arguments with her husband over stupid little things, the distance, the sudden dreams of her exes popping up like unfinished business. Temptations from nowhere.

It all clicked.

So Natasha decided to fight back.

For three days, she fasted. No food. No water. Just the Word and worship. She buried herself in online sermons—especially one Pastor, Kevin Ewing. His videos... Straight fire. All about fasting, witchcraft, breaking evil covenants and demonic altars. That man didn’t play.

She didn’t eat bread—she ate scripture. Didn’t sip juice—she drank revelation.

On the final night of her fast, she dreamed again.

She saw Opal creeping in the shadows, trying to slip through her front door like a thief. Natasha, still in the dream, grabbed her phone and called the police. But instead of sirens, two massive beings dropped from the sky—15 feet tall, maybe more. They were covered in armour, breastplates glowing with a white-hot light that pulsed like a heartbeat from heaven. The second they landed, that light shot out and hit Opal straight in the eyes. She screamed and dropped to the ground, clawing the air, trying to find her way back to wherever she came from. She scrambled away like something wild.

Then Natasha woke up.

The curse was broken.

Her house—her marriage—was covered by the angels of the Lord. Just like the scriptures she’d been praying. Protection. Deliverance. Peace. She turned over in bed and kissed her husband’s forehead. To her surprise, his eyes fluttered open.

“I just had a dream,” he said softly. “Doesn’t matter what it was, not really. What matters is it reminded me how much I love you. There was something trying to pull us apart, Tash. But what God joins… let no man separate.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. She didn’t even try to stop them. God had fought for her. And won.

Time passed.

Natasha did the big chop. She took it all off—every weak, broken strand. Started fresh. No more salons. No more stylists. She went DIY. She watched videos on how to deep condition, how to wear her curls natural. It was hard, yeah, but healing too. Each twist, each detangle, felt like therapy. Felt like taking back control.

Then one day, on her way home from work, walking to the train station—she saw her.

Opal. Sitting at the side of the station, coat wrapped tight, face tired, palms out.

“Please… got any change?” she asked, barely meeting Natasha’s eyes.

Natasha blinked, heart thudding. She could’ve walked past. Could’ve kept her head down. But instead, she stepped closer.

“You hungry?” she asked gently.

Opal nodded.

So Natasha went into the little supermarket beside the station. Picked up water, bread, a hot meal from the fridge aisle. Some toiletries too. She came back, knelt down beside her, and placed the bag in her lap. Then she laid her hands on her and whispered:

“I pray the Lord God Almighty has mercy on you. That He restores you. That you come to know His love, and be healed by His Spirit. I pray for true repentance, that you receive Jesus as your Lord and Saviour.”

“Get away from me!” Opal snapped.

But Natasha didn’t flinch.

She knew it wasn’t Opal talking. It was the spirits in her reacting to the light. To the truth.

Opal was blind now. Lost everything. She blamed God, but refused to see her own role in her fall. Still… Natasha had faith.

Because the same God that restored her—could restore Opal too.

She understood now.

Opal was never the real enemy.