Sneha.

The hefty odor 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, holding a faded yellow comb with one too many bristles missing in one hand, and balancing an aromatic elixir of oils in the other, the scent of which permeated the room. Without much warning, her cold hand pulled against my forehead, painfully craning my neck 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 tugging of the comb on my scalp felt like a release, a cathartic experience. When I saw the metallic cup of oil depleted, I knew every strand of my hair was meticulously drenched. She concluded by carefully folding her work into two braids on either side of my head.

Every day until the end of fifth grade, my scalp was well-cared for, my braids bore an uncanny resemblance to Wednesday Addams, and coconut became my signature scent as I pranced through the halls of my 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, these parts of me began to wash away. I grew distant from my culture in an attempt to satisfy the norms I saw around me. A circular oil stain and a bottle of heat protectant replaced the shelf space that once had been filled with a Tupperware container of oil. The sharp 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.

Until one day in tenth grade, my mom arrived home carrying a mammoth-sized white jar. Unscrewing 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, Riya,” she said, and explained that in Sanskrit, the word “sneha” translated to “to oil” as well as “to love.” What I had once simplified to be 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 abandoning this tradition had led me to rinse my culture away. And so, I began to gradually re-oil these gaps I had created. 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, linking our generations. My mom’s hands on my scalp restored my appreciation for the tradition she was continuing through it. Through her, I’ve learned the significance of treasuring tradition and I’ve found compassion in even the most mundane rituals in my life- at school and at home.

Mondays and Thursdays, once demoted to ordinary days, are now treasured occasions for introspection and connection. On the days following, I proudly wear my hair, coconut-infused and all, 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 shape it. These days have a special place in my heart, reminding me that, despite the tangles along the way, I am capable of appreciating the profound beauty of the people and traditions that complete me.