Cruel Summer: Satan’s Blow Dryer

by Fayeruz Regan 07.2023

Growing up, my neighbor Casey wasn’t a “girl next door” (though she physically was). She was an it girl. She had large doe eyes, an immaculate perm, and was a few years older than the other kids on the block. When she jogged around the neighborhood, the boys would follow behind her. They were laughing and too afraid to speak to her directly, but were professing their love nonetheless. 

We thought she “worked at a bar,” though it was likely a T.G.I. Fridays. Then she moved to California and became a jazz singer. How do you compete with that?

I’ll tell you how. You find out years later that she loves humidity. It makes you rethink your entire version of this person. I was visiting my parents a few years ago, and saw Casey sitting on her parent’s front porch. Let me preface this by saying the night was so muggy that my shades fogged in the car. It was gross. Yet Casey sat on the steps with her chin tilted toward the sky. I’d guess she was looking at stars, but it was too hazy. “Hey Miss California!” I called to her. We both lived there, but would run into one another back in Virginia on major holidays. 

She beamed at me and said, “Isn’t this great?” I looked around. I didn’t see anything. “The humidity,” she explained, “It’s so steamy and sensual!” She raised her arms to her sides, palms up, and sucked in a lot of air through her nose. She noticed my horror. “It’s so sexy. Plus it’s great for your pores. The people who live in humid countries have the best skin.”

So I tried to embrace humidity. It was Casey, after all. I had recently moved from L.A. to Richmond, and figured if I couldn’t beat it, I could pretend it was a sauna. I loved a good eucalyptus steam session. And I tried, I really tried deep breathing and imagining my pores opening. But there was no smell of eucalyptus. Just the faint whiff of dog poop baking in the sun two yards away. 

Then I tied to embrace humidity as sexy. We often see gleaming skin in music videos and love scenes. People were especially wet-looking in 90s Cinemax (“Skinemax”) movies. And boy did I glisten. But how could it be sexy if I was ready to punch anyone who even thought about touching me?

Determined to beat this, I found another person who liked humidity. My sister-in-law Rebecca claimed she liked it because it beat the cold. I told her to take cold out of the equation. She had a hard time doing this. I discovered it was because she’s cold all the time. For her, humidity is associated with heat, which is just a respite for her chattering bones. Hence, it doesn’t count. Unlike my sociopath neighbor Casey, who actively seeks out steamy weather, Rebecca does it to not have the same blood temperature as a reptile. 

I’m not alone in my loathing. One of my favorite Southern writers, Pulitzer Prize-winning Rick Bragg, likens humidity to a wool blanket. And as much as he makes the South sound folksy and full of heart, he even acknowledges the scourge of the Southern summer. 

I love the way my skin dries instantly when stepping into air conditioning. Or a crisp, dark movie theater on a sweltering day. But I haven’t given up hope. Readers, please impart that priceless insight that will allow me to embrace the hell that takes place when rain water evaporates back into clouds.

The humidity starts with a standoff. At stage one, it’s me against spring’s dreaded retreat. I’ll keep the windows open through the balmy weather, and act like I don’t notice when our rugs start to smell like the animals they’re woven from. 

Then there’s stage two: the standoff with my husband. You’ve entered this stage when it becomes uncomfortable to sleep. But who will call it first? We pretend that the cooler nights make up for the mugginess that makes our pajamas stick to our skin. Though it’s never said aloud, the person who calls it first is ultimately the spoiled one, the one that can’t handle “warm weather,” and is thus ending the nice break we had on the electricity bill. 

As of last night, I became the spoiled electricity bill-ruiner of 2023. We closed our squeaky windows and pressed the tiny button that chased away Satan’s blow-dryer. Happy summer y’all.