In primary school, one of my worst nightmares was going to school with two braids either side of my head.
Worse, if my hair had been oiled. My long greasy black/brown locks with shiny oil residue creeping down my forehead was NOT IT. I loved the feeling of sitting in between mum’s legs while she massaged my scalp with Amla, but I hated the aftermath.
Back then, my hair was something I could control. It didn’t change my brown skin but spending hours in front of the mirror trying a zillion different hairstyles from ‘Girl Talk’ mag, adorning the finishing looks with butterfly clips and Elnett hairspray, distracted from my big forehead, goofy front teeth, hairy face, AND made me feel like I fit in with the white girls at school just a tiny bit more — which I was sadly desperate for. You see, greasy braided hair called for being bullied and between the ages of 5-9, my reputation couldn’t handle it.
My mum has always been militant about hair. Being Sikh/Punjabi, she was adamant that her girls never cut or dyed theirs. Our hair was a symbol of strength and identity and altering it was a disservice to the sacrifices our Guru’s had made (FAQ's on Sikhism here for those interested).
Naturally, right before I moved to NYC in 2014, I cut the cutest little bob you’ve ever seen. I was making my mark: A 24-year-old adult woman leaving her life behind in England for the big city with a haircut to match. And that was really the beginning of the end, marking major moments in my life with significant hair changes.
A few years later after an abortion (my body my choice, although not an easy one), I cut my mid-length, grown-out bob into a pixie. It was the only thing I could control at the time and fuck it looked SO good. I was a whole new Hardeep with the same old obsessive desire to alter myself with drastic hairstyles. The pixie was WILD. It brought me a newfound love, a self-published collection of poetry, and many trips to the barber shop for upkeep. She was expensive but I adored her.
Until I didn’t. Eventually I outgrew the pixie and made peace with my choice. I gained some buccal fat and accepted that I was no longer wearing her with confidence. The grow-out period was about as uncomfortable as puberty but I got through it. The next big haircut moment came during the covid summer of 2020. My hair had grown down my back this time, long enough for me to reach around and grab and despite pleas from my mum to keep it long, I went straight to Shizen (my forever hair salon) and watched as Yoko took off 7 inches, transforming my hair into the sharpest, sexiest, cleanest bob you’ve ever seen. It’s like 2014 never even happened.
Mask on, I took my razor-sharp cut for a spin for about a year before I got bored and woke up one and decided to grow it. Again. Life was messy and I was lost. Up until this point, every new hair cut, every iteration of myself felt like the evolution of a new apple product: shinier, better, stronger, faster. But the more I cut off, the further I felt from the actual me. From the girl who ran around the pind in punjab, hair flowing freely. The girl who sat in between her mum’s legs, vowing to always remember where she came from.
Better isn’t always better.
Last week, I was in DR celebrating my baby sister’s 30th birthday (WTF) and our journey to America together over this past decade. During the fuckery of the election, while on the beach watching the sunset, we reflected a lot about who and where we came from, and how we’ve done a full 360 in reclaiming our roots. The decision to grow my hair 3 years ago still stands as my now-curly locks graze my lower back, my hair has become an anchor that grounds me. Many dips in the ocean reaffirmed that some things are best left natural, even if they are a little salty.
Back on the beach, I found myself balls deep in Family Lore, by Elizabeth Acevedo, and it couldn’t have been more timely. I was lost in the story of a matriarchal Dominican-American family and the lives they built in NYC (felt odd af reading this in DR). It felt parallel to my own family history: parents leaving Punjab for a better life in England, bottling all of their magic, wishes, and trauma and never really having the chance to set it free. Having spent the last couple of years healing my wounds of erasure and reclaiming my identity, I was comforted by this book.
Turns out, hair oil is the turmeric of 2024.
Yesterday morning after landing back in NYC, hair full of salt and sand, I had 3 minutes before a zoom call and wanted them all to myself. I grabbed my Fable & Mane hair oil, which I’m obsessed with (not sponsored) and started meditatively massaging it through my scalp, smiling in the mirror as I caught my reflection. I wanted all the grease. I wanted my mum and her love. I want the wisdom and strength my hair holds because the changes I’ve been making are the ones you can’t see.
Be kind to yourselves friends and comment if you want my hair routine <3
🫨 Little Shakes 🫨
small things, still shook
🥾 Hike Clerb is helping folks in greater LA go on affordable camping trips with REI!!!!!
🧘🏽♀️ Alo Yoga doing 30% off for singles day just feels LOL in a so-on-brand-but-also-disconnected-type-way, no?
🧵 This thread
This brought back so many memories of my own mom and nani oiling my hair as a little girl! Such a lovely reflection! :)
This post warmed my heart. Such a feel good reflection moment. Thank you for sharing babes.