Coconut oil has never been simple for me.

1.

We are picking up a member of our extended community on the way to one of our get-togethers. We carpool often, and this night is no different. We arrive at her home, she gets in the car. Once she is settled in, we take off.

That’s when the smell hits me. A blend of coconut and amla oil permeates the air.
I feel choked.
I feel angry.
I feel…too Indian.
I am embarrassed by this smell, and her heavy use of coconut oil. I’m embarrassed because of what it represents to a predominantly white, Canadian culture. This is a culture I need to be connected to in order to be “Canadian”. Coconut oil disconnects me from them. I stare at the back of her head in anger. Her salt and pepper hair glistens every time we pass a street light. Thin sections are separated by the comb that was pulled through it, and her hair sits against her scalp in sleek, soft waves. The same smell that now reminds me of home was enough to make me see red.

2.

At the time of this moment, I am in India, about 5 or 6 years back. I still use artificial shampoos - the kinds made of heavy detergents like sodium laureth sulfate that strip away all of my hair’s natural oils. I condition my hair with coconut oil before every wash in order to combat the dryness from these products.

A friend and distant relative oils my hair, in an intimate and beautiful part of our Indian culture, passed down for centuries. We sit and talk as she works her fingers over my scalp, and through my hair. She uses coconut oil that we’ve poured into a small metal bowl specifically kept for this task. We laugh and joke, and learn more about each other during this process. The coconut oil is heavy and moisturizing in my hair, and the massage is to die for. In this moment, I am content with the world.

I moisturize my skin with oils and butters - it is the way of my lineage.

3.

I’m sitting with three friends, all people of colour, having a conversation that we’re revisiting yet again - we’re arguing about the merits of coconut for the hair. It’s 3 against my 1; I’m the only person arguing ‘for’.

”No, it’s dirty. Your hair doesn’t need the extra oil. It just becomes greasy and gross.”
”No, Indian people have been oiling their hair for centuries. We used coconut oil all of our childhood. It’s moisturizing and helps strengthen hair. My grandma always used it in ours.”

This conversation is never ending. Neither side budges.

Later, one friend tells me what one of the others has said. “X said that her mother never had greasy hair in India and that she has no clue what you’re talking about.” He’s happy with this finality. One Indian never used coconut oil, so that must have meant that the millions of us who did were wrong for it.

A few years later, coconut oil and many aspects of South Asian culture are being “discovered” by mainstream white culture. It took whiteness to convince 2 of my friends, both POC, one of whom is Indian, of what I had been saying and doing for years. What my people had been doing for centuries. Since then, I’ve oiled the hair of 2/3 of these friends multiple times.

While I’m happy to see them nourish their hair and understand the intricacies and rich history of Indian culture, I can’t deny the resentment I felt back then. Something that I contended with for years, that they dismissed so easily, was snatched up once whiteness declared it valuable. I remember wishing I had the same validity over my culture that whiteness had - or has, rather.

4.

Another moment in India. My grandmother walks outside to see my sister and I air-drying our hair in the sun after washing it. She asks us when we are going to oil it. We tell her we aren’t.

She scoffs at us - she can’t imagine how someone would let their hair be so dry after shampooing it. She mutters under her breath about how silly we are for not using coconut oil right away. She is shocked by our cavalier attitude towards our hair.

5.

I am in grade 4. I am heading back to my 4/5 split class as I see another classmate, Kelsey, walking towards me from the opposite direction. We meet in front of our classroom door, and exchange a few words. Then, Kelsey looks at my hair. It is in a slick and shiny ponytail, heavily laden with Vatika Oil: a blend of coconut oil infused with amla and other Ayurvedic herbs.

”Do you have coconut oil in your hair?”

I’m a little embarrassed that she notices, but how could she not? It is black and shiny.

“Yeah, my grandma always puts it in for me.” I try to place the blame somewhere else.
”Yeah, my grandma put it in my hair too. I like the smell.”

I am taken aback. I start to smile. Kelsey walks into class, and I follow.

For Kelsey, this is likely a moment lost in time. For me, it is a memory straight out of a memoir. It took a young Black girl, and her unknowing solidarity, for a young brown girl to feel comfortable in her skin. It really should have always been that beautiful and simple, but alas.

Coconut oil has never been simple for me.