I used to hate humidity, until I grew a little older and lived in a place that has none, or very little to speak of. People say of Arizona, “It’s a dry heat.” It is. And so is the blast that comes out of your oven when you open it to take out the cookie sheet. Membranes dry out, skin scorches, eyes holler for moisture. Little furrows form in the smooth places on your cheeks and chin and forehead. They become big furrows before their time.

In contrast, walking out of the Buffalo airport into the summer evening air usually yields a cool, soft, moisture-laden wisp or gust of wind, the scent of water in it such a contrast to the scent of dust I’m used to. It’s like walking through an invisible mister.

The times when the humidity is as high as the temperature in Buffalo are murder, especially if it doesn’t cool off at night. But that’s fairly rare, and I remember those times as special–my mom would bring the big box fan in to try to blow the hot air out of my little second floor bedroom window. It didn’t work, and it made a lot of noise, but God love her for trying.

My past dislike of humidity wasn’t just tied to discomfort, though; it was more tied to vanity. Humidity made my hair frizz.