I only feared two things as a kid: death and my mother’s Dabur Amla Coconut Hair Oil. Each morning, I watched as the soulful hues of gray and blue intertwine in the sky, inviting a promise of a fresh start along with a tender slap of morning nausea. I hear my mother’s screams, “जल्दी उठो बस निकलने वाली nहै!!!” or “wake up now the bus is about to leave!!!” as my platinum chrome alarm clock sparks a great epiphany — my perception shifting from fantasy to reality in a heartbeat. Once I was dressed, I dragged myself to my mother’s bathroom, flopped on the red plastic stool in front of her marble sink, and reached for the dreaded Juniper-Green bottle of hair oil. I hated that damn bottle. I felt my mother’s hands, cold on the surface of my scalp, spreading the oil like lapping waves hitting the ocean shore. The smell was even worse. The thick stench of coconut, honey, and burnt rubber wrapped my brain, engulfing me in the misery of my culture, reminding me of my ancestors inculcated into following the same hair routine every morning. I didn’t know what to blame first: my religion, Sikhism, which forced me to relish my grossly long frizzy hair, or my mother, who forced me to adore my “dark wind-tousled curls”. Little did I know that something as simple as the hair on my head would create one of the biggest turning points in my life.

In order to profess the Sikh faith, women and men are expected to grow their hair out, a practice known as Kesh, out of respect for the perfection of God’s creation. I spent my early childhood years watching my uncles, grandfathers, and brothers honor the Sikh morning hair routine. I observed the way they gently pulled their tumble of hair into a high ponytail, twisting it with grace, and tying the thick Patak cloth creating a delicately nestled crown: the turban. The turban crafted my understanding of equality as I watched the masculine men in my family find great pride in their rich black heavens of hair. The gently buoyant thread-like strands of hair weaved my adoration for Sikhism as a child. I let my hair grow with them, giving it permission to tangle and tumble like rich autumn leaves during the fall. Over time, however, the threads that stitched my identity began pulling apart, and my adoration for my culture morphed into betrayal.

It was the first day of sixth grade. I’d never felt so beautiful. I wore my favorite green checkered skirt and turquoise polo T-shirt with the words “Classy and Sassy” boldly embedded on the front. My hair was magical. The evenly smothered coconut oil allowed its pure blackness to blossom in the morning sun. My braid traveled till the end of my hips. I felt it pulling on my scalp and neck, but I continued to carry its weight— head held high— in honor of my cultural identity. Upon meeting my close friends after the summer break, the first thing they asked me was why my hair smelled so Indian. I stood there, chuckling in pure awkwardness as my friends went on. “It’s the first day of school, why is your hair in an ugly braid?” “Your hair is so big you can hide your entire bag in it.” I was confused. My family had convinced me of the beauty and power my long hair possessed, yet over time, I didn’t know if their words were a simple scheme to hide the reality of my appearance.

The following week I made a presentation in my Chinese class. My classmates were asked to raise their hands and ask me questions about my topic. Marcus, the boy I liked at the time, stood up and asked if I was Indian. I was startled and nodded my head slowly. “Oh that explains why your hair is so smelly.” I felt the shame of his words marinate through my skin, traveling rapidly through each cell in my body. The silence within me was loud as my brain stuttered, formulating a plan on whether to cry, run, or kill. The rest of my class stared at me with words of empathy yet eyes of solace, grateful that they weren't me, that they weren't Sikh. It was at that moment that I let the weight of my hair, my identity, pull me into a pit too deep to escape out of. The gently buoyant thread-like strands of hair were broken, and it was impossible to weave them back together.

That same day, I cut my hair off. Hair that flowed till the end of my hips was now till the tip of my shoulders. Hair that symbolized my ancestral history, my family, my femininity, my identity, was lost. Shattered, I laid on the marble bathroom floor by the red plastic stool. I laid among the fallen strands of hair, grabbing the black thread like pieces, tearfully trying to reattach it to my head. My mother walked in and if looks could kill I would have withered there and then. It was the first time I saw her cry. She never oiled my hair again, and my hair never grew back to what it once was. I spent the next few years trying to understand what Sikhism meant to me. Was there any point in continuing my connection to Sikhism, yet alone believing in it? Months after cutting my hair, I hesitated when people asked me what I am; do I say Indian or Sikh and explain why it’s not physically evident? Although I struggled deciphering my identity internally, I thrived in the new environment my shorter hair created. Marcus asked me out the year after. My friends thought I was prettier. The Platinum chrome alarm clock rang an hour later than usual, and I never had to smell the dreaded stench of Coconut, burnt rubber, and honey. As I lived my life, thriving off of fleeting moments of serotonin through perfunctory validation and meaningless convention, I felt a part of myself lost.

During the summer of ninth grade, my family and I visited Phagwara, Punjab — the habitat of all things Sikh. I was amazed to find every corner of the rain-washed cobbled streets bathed with long dark hair and colorful, royal turbans. There was a new kind of vibrancy, one that uplifted the soul. As I drove down the beautiful city, I watched people cherish their identity with passing smiles and mild gestures of appreciation that added paint to the canvas of the city. They were different beings living unique lives yet there was a sense of unity and connectedness that I had never seen before. These buoyant strands of hair lit the streets night and day and tied the people of Phagwara together, allowing them to own their uniqueness and teaching me how to own my own. Seeing my people adore their unique characteristics and find appreciation in their idiosyncratic beauty sparked a wave of desolation within me. I was the minority in that city, among my own people, and that had to change.

I bring my mother’s Dabur Amla Coconut Hair Oil wherever I go. The thick stench of coconut, honey, and burnt rubber engulfs me in the beauty of my culture along with its flaws. Feeling anomalous in my own community impelled me to braid back my new sense of self, culture, and the uniqueness of those around me. While I am no longer a devoted Sikh woman, I have found my own sacred power that transcends to empowerment by changing the way I live my life. I made new friends, ones that have unique identities, qualities, and perspectives and extracted value in differences. I grew my hair out long for the sole reason that it provided me with a deep-rooted sense of serotonin rather than the temporary one I yearned before. And, I fell in love with growing up as a brown woman in a predominantly east asian country. I stood out, and for the first time, I liked that. Today, I wear my own turban and have found peace with the Juniper-Green bottle of hair oil. That damn bottle. 

-Gaayatri Trehan

Gaayatri Trehan is a first-year student in Northeastern University.