In 2026, the clean girl aesthetic is one of the most elevated forms of self-care on social media. Beauty influencers are swearing by overnight hair oil masks and oil therapy. In 2016, clean girl wasn’t an aesthetic, but a reason for muffled snickers at school, and the chic, slicked-back hair was the result of a weekly consuetude that the world taught me to be ashamed of.

Hair oiling goes hand in hand with my culture, and over time, I’ve realized that it nurtures the hair in a way that seeps straight into the soul.

It probably started when I was a baby. I know this because it began similarly for my sibling, who was probably weeks old before their first oiling. According to the elders in the family, the coconut oil so copiously rubbed in was not only to nourish the hair, but was also for healthier skin and deep moisturizing of the scalp.

Over time, the bowl of warm coconut oil that smelled like curry leaves and fenugreek morphed into a blue plastic bottle of Parachute brand coconut oil, castor oil in my teenage years, a thick glass bottle of almond oil, fancy jojoba oil for a hot second in my twenties, rosemary oil once Instagram haircare took over, and much more. Over three decades, it went from a family ritual to self-care.

Despite changing oils, changing ages, and changing countries, oiling my hair has been a ritual I have carried with me, saved for the self-care days when I need to unwind.

My earliest memories of hair-oiling are deeply sensory. The feeling of cool, marble-like tile under me as I sit cross-legged on the floor, the rich, nutty smell of the oil wafting through the warm air, the creak of wood behind me, where my grandmother sits on the bed, the pleasure of feeling her fingers work the velvety oil through my scalp, and the sound of my house around me melding into white noise as I close my eyes and feel the oil seeping through each strand of hair.

At age twelve or thirteen, I remember rolling up to a new middle school in a big city with oiled hair neatly tied into two ponytails, and looking around to see the other girls in bouncy, light, shampooed hair, and feeling less than. In the early 2000s, most of the actors on-screen had light and bouncy hair, as did the models, as did the cool kids.

All the beautiful people had beautiful hair unencumbered with oil.

So in high school, when my grandmother asked if I wanted to sit down for my weekly hair oiling, I refused and proclaimed that I hated it.

I did not. I love it to this day. But it took becoming an adult and separating myself from the trends around me to accept that hair oiling was something important to me, something that I loved, and something that was not only a part of my culture and family, but of who I was.

In South Asian cultures, hair oiling is an ancient Ayurvedic ritual that has been practiced for thousands of years. Oils infused with herbs have long been used to nourish the scalp and hair, while Ayurveda also views the practice as one that promotes balance and overall well-being.

In Sanskrit, the most common meaning of the word “sneha” is “love” or “affection.” However, in his 2019 paper, Dr. Dhananjay Vasudeo Dwivedi, from the Department of Sanskrit at Ranchi College in India, noted that sneha also refers to the oleaginous parts of plants.

To love and to oil, both are encapsulated in one word, sneha, and the bond between the two actions is just as strong. Generations of daughters have sat between their mothers’ knees, feeling the trickle of oil down their scalp, knowing that one day they will also sit with their children, going through the same motions.

However, as a young girl, the ritual of hair-oiling was not about Ayurveda or Sanskrit. Hair oiling wasn’t a philosophy. It was a time when I sat with my mother or grandmother, heard the conversations of the family flow around me like a river, and enjoyed being part of a soothing ritual that nourished my soul.

When I saw the hair-oiling scene in season two of Bridgerton, it took me by surprise. Not often do you see the intimate, domestic scene of hair being oiled portrayed in Western media. There was something nostalgic about Simone Ashley’s Kate Sharma gently smoothing oil through her younger sister Edwina’s tresses to calm her down and offer emotional reprieve.

It was a moment of sisterly bonding, a moment where self-care became communal. A moment where every desi watching shed an internal tear brimming with nostalgia.

Also, it was a moment where years of bullying resurfaced. It was a moment of inner conflict, even after years of acceptance and growth.

Speaking with Tudum by Netflix, nonbinary author and advocate Alok Vaid-Menon said they were touched by the scene because it mirrored their own upbringing.

Speaking with me, a friend and longtime confidant said they were moved by the scene but also felt resentment. With this one scene, the Western audience started believing that hair oiling is beautiful and intimate. But for the South Asian kids who had to deal with the fallout of this specific cultural practice in schools and on playgrounds, the scene becomes bittersweet.

The truth is that oiled hair, in the 1990s and 2000s, was not seen as just oil. It was called greasy, dirty, and unclean. In cultures where sleek hair was the antithesis of fashionable, oiled hair was reduced to a cultural laughing point.

My friend still hates the feeling of oil in her hair. She says it reminds her of the heaviness she felt when she was forced to wear it in her hair at school, and laughed at for it.

Now, with TikTok overflowing with the clean girl aesthetic, with Maddie and Cassie from Euphoria slicking back their hair into ponytails, suddenly the lifestyle we grew up being bullied for has become chic. Hair oiling has been repackaged as luxury wellness. Beauty brands bottle it, influencers romanticize it, and social media celebrates the glistening slick-back as the pinnacle of effortless beauty.

Yet for South Asian women, the ritual has remained the same. The coconut oil, the careful hands, and the tranquil act of care has been a constant for generations. It is only the surrounding gaze that changed with location and time.

I once scrubbed my hair three times, desperate to wash away every trace of oil. Now, every weekend, I reach for that familiar bottle instead. The ritual is no longer something to hide, but something to return to.