A mother-daughter tradition lost — and found
The unmistakable aroma of coconut with subtle hints of tea tree floated through the room as i sat dutifully on the living room floor. my mom sat on the sofa behind me. in one hand she held a faded yellow comb with one too many teeth missing, and in the other she balanced a pungent elixir of oils, the scent of which permeated the air. Without much warning, her cold hand pulled against my forehead, painfully craning my head back.
my mom’s fingers, intentional and trained by preceding generations, massaged my scalp, the warm coconut oil seeping into my hair, washing away the burdens of the week. even the slight tug of the comb on my scalp felt like a release, a cathartic experience. When i saw that the metallic cup of oil was empty, i knew every strand of my hair was meticulously drenched. my mother concluded by carefully folding her work into a braid on each side of my head.
twice a week until the end of fifth grade, my scalp was thus cared for, my braids bearing an uncanny resemblance to Wednesday Addams’s, and coconut becoming my signature scent in elementary school. little did i know at the time that i carried my culture with the oil in my hair and the braids resting on my shoulders.
but as i entered middle school, those parts of me began to fade away. in an attempt to satisfy the norms i saw around me, i grew distant from my culture. Where once there was a tupperware container of oil there was now just a circular oil stain and a bottle of heat protectant. the distinctive scent of coconut no longer trailed me; instead, i conformed with straightened strands. i spent monday and thursday nights alone in the bathroom, burning my hair into society’s mold. one day when i was in 10th grade, my mom arrived home carrying a mammoth-sized white jar. When she unscrewed its lid, the soft scent of coconut slid through me. A sense of euphoria seeped into my body in unison with the memories of those weekday nights with my mom.
“You know, i’m not just pulling strands, harshee,” my mother said. she explained that in sanskrit, the word “sneha” translates to “to love” and not only “to oil.” What i had once taken as merely a method to improve my hair health was truly a labor of love that had been handed down, generation to generation.
i came to realize that in abandoning this tradition, i had rinsed away my culture. that night, i asked my mom to oil my hair once again. i sat in the same spot i had those many years ago, with her steady presence behind me. her slow process felt soothing and tender and like a link between our generations. my mom’s hands on my scalp restored my appreciation for the tradition. through her, i’ve learned the significance of such rituals, no matter how mundane.
mondays and thursdays are once again treasured occasions for introspection and connection. on the days following, i proudly wear my coconut-infused hair with the braids cascading over my shoulders as symbols of my identity. they remind me of the ties that bind me to generations past. through hair oiling, i honor and embrace my authentic self, weaving my story into the traditions that have helped shape it. Despite the tangles i might encounter, i am capable of appreciating the profound beauty of the people and customs that complete me.
Harshee Shah is a senior at Naperville Central High School in Naperville, Ill. Illustrator Charlotte Pinto is a junior at Newton North High School. For more from Charlotte and other teen contributors, visit globe.com/teensspeak.