Beauty, Braids, and Belonging

Editorial Assistant Rahima Bilgrami reminisces memories of hair-oiling with her mother, as she discusses reclaiming her identity through re-embracing her culture.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, the cool tiles pressing against my knees. My mother perched on the step above me, reaches for the jar of coconut oil. She warms it between her palms, the rich, nutty scent filling the air, before working it through my hair. 

“Please be gentle this time, Mum”, I remark under my breath as her fingers press into my scalp, kneading away the week’s tension. The oil glistens, catching the morning light as she separates my hair into sections and begins to braid. 

“Ouch!” I wince, pulling away. 

“This is what stimulates hair growth”, she chides, her voice firm but loving. It’s a Saturday ritual, as familiar as the sunrise–soft, grounding, and as loving as a warm embrace on a chilly day, an act of quiet unspoken love. But it was something that took me a long time to come to love.

I remember when I first moved to Australia, my heart overjoyed, my braids coiled tight, and my camera working overtime. I existed freely, unburdened by constantly being aware of who and where I was. The word “different” didn’t weigh on me—I was simply myself, living as I always had. But then, I stumbled upon a subreddit post. It was a rant, sharp and cutting, about Desi women who moved to Australia and brought their ‘foreign’, ‘outdated’, and ‘tacky’ culture with them, that of their oiled braids, their traditional dresses, and their need to cover themselves up. The post urged them to abandon these traditions if they ever hoped to fit in and to assimilate into Aussie culture. Suddenly, I was not alone anymore; a million eyes accompanied me wherever I went. Is it my hair? My skin? My dress? My shoes? I never could tell.

Years later, I found myself scrolling through TikTok, my thumb pausing on a video of a white woman gliding through her morning routine. She slicked back her hair with Argan oil, twisting it into a sleek braid and tying it into a bun. The caption read: Aesthetic morning routine. At first, I scrolled past, but over the next few days, a whirlwind of emotions churned inside me—anger, confusion, and a deep, aching sense of loss. I couldn’t understand why this bothered me so much. After all, I had spent years carefully dissecting myself, peeling away the parts that felt too “foreign”, too “other”, and replacing them with pieces that fit neatly into the world around me. So why did this innocent video unsettle me so deeply? Wasn’t I happy with how I had changed? Didn’t I love the person I had transformed into?

I realised, with a sharp clarity, that the anger I felt wasn’t directed at anyone else; it was aimed squarely at myself. I had taken the essence of who I was and buried it beneath layers of what I thought the world wanted me to be. I had willingly let go of the things that made me, me. The traditions that shaped me, the roots that anchored me, and the quiet, sacred ritual of Saturday mornings with my mother. I had disowned them, silenced them, as if they were something to be ashamed of. So, when I saw those same practices, practices that were once mine, reenacted by someone outside my culture, celebrated as ‘aesthetic’, it felt like a betrayal. A searing, aching betrayal that cut deeper than I expected. But the truth was, I had betrayed myself long before anyone else could. I had abandoned who I was and what my mother had taught me. In my quest for conformity, I had given away pieces of myself, pieces others would happily pick up and adorn. It was now time—time to let it all go.

Now, as I sit cross-legged on the floor, the rough texture of the carpet pressing into my skin, I feel a quiet sense of peace. The room is still, save for the soft hum of the world outside, and the air carries the faint, distinct scent of amla oil. I pour a few drops into my palms, warming it between my fingers, the oil’s coolness melting into a soothing warmth. As I work it through my hair, my hands move with a rhythm that feels both foreign and familiar. These are my hands now, not my mother’s, but I can’t help but remember her touch, steady, sure, and filled with love.

The strands of my hair glide between my fingers, each a thread connecting me to a past I once tried to unravel. I part my hair carefully, the way my mum taught me, and begin to braid. The motion is slower, clumsier than hers, but it’s mine. The mirror catches my reflection, and I pause. The woman staring back at me is unapologetically herself, her edges softened by the grace of self-acceptance. Her braids are not perfect, but they are hers, woven with intention, care, and with the quiet determination to reclaim what was lost.