There is a particular kind of visibility that travel gives you.
Everywhere I looked, someone was taking a photo. Phones lifted in front of monuments, along the water, at dinner tables just before the food arrived. Moments paused, adjusted, repeated.
For a moment, I wondered if I should do the same—place myself more deliberately inside the frame, prove that I, too, had been here.
But presence is fragile. Once interrupted, it does not always return the same way.
So I hesitated.
And then, in the same stretch of travel, I found myself searching for something far less visible.
A hair salon.
Not just any salon, but one that understood my hair as it is—without translation, without hesitation, without the quiet risk of being handled incorrectly.
It is the kind of search that carries a different weight. Not aesthetic, but essential.
In London, I found it.
A small space, warm and intentional. Wood floors, framed photographs, the quiet hum of conversation that feels familiar even when you’ve just walked in. There are places that receive you, and then there are places that recognize you.
Sitting in Charlotte Mensah’s chair, I did not have to explain myself.
Not my hair. Not how it moves. Not what it needs.
Being cared for by her—by someone who understands both the technique and the history of what she is touching—felt immediate, almost disarming in its ease. The kind of ease you don’t question until you realize how rarely you experience it.
It felt like being seen.
And, just as importantly, being held.
In Greece, it was not so simple.
In Istanbul, even less so.
The few options I could find were distant—hours away, or uncertain in a way that made the decision feel risky. Reviews that didn’t quite say enough. Photos that didn’t quite show enough. A sense of approximation instead of understanding.
And in Greece, in many ways, not even that.
What I found was not absence exactly—but distance.
Distance in geography. Distance in knowledge. Distance in care.
There is a particular kind of invisibility that exists alongside visibility.
You can be photographed everywhere.
And still not be accounted for anywhere.
I thought about Miami. About Haiti.
Places where you would assume familiarity would translate into access. And still, even there, the standard often leans elsewhere—toward something straighter, something altered, something closer to a version of beauty that was never built with you in mind.
It makes you question what is taught.
What is funded.
What is considered essential.
Who is centered.
And who is expected to adapt.
So you adjust.
You plan ahead. You choose styles that will last longer than the trip itself. You carry products, routines, contingencies. You make decisions not just based on preference, but on what will allow you to move through a place with the least amount of friction.
Box braids become not just a choice, but a strategy.
Ease, but negotiated.
And still, the city continues.
People take their photos. The light shifts across buildings and water. Conversations spill out of cafés. Music carries through streets you will only walk once.
You are there. Fully.
And yet, part of your experience is shaped by something most people will never have to consider.
I thought, briefly, about taking fewer photos.
About being more present. Less concerned with how I would remember this place later.
But presence is not just about putting your phone down.
It is about being able to move through a place without having to prepare for it.
Without having to calculate access.
Without having to account for what may or may not exist for you once you arrive.
Because there is a difference between being seen and being cared for.
And that, I am still learning, is a kind of freedom not every traveler is given.
Isabelle Alerte is the writer behind In Written Word, an editorial site on place, taste, and lived experience. She lives in Miami.
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