A South African Indian Mother’s Legacy of Love (A fictional story)
My mother’s hands were always steady, even when life was not. Every Sunday evening, without fail, she would sit me down on the floor in front of her, cross-legged, while she oiled and plaited my thick, unruly hair.
“Beta, your hair carries your strength,” she’d say, her fingers working coconut oil through my strands with the same patience she showed when teaching me to roll rotis. “It holds our history—every braid, every twist. So you care for it with pride.”
Back then, I didn’t understand. To me, it was just another chore—something to endure before running off to play with my cousins in the dusty streets of Lenasia. But years later, when she was gone, I found myself sitting on that same floor, clutching her worn wooden comb, its teeth still holding a few strands of her jet-black hair mixed with mine.
And that’s when it struck me.
The First Plait: A Ritual of Love
Studies show that the simple act of doing someone’s hair—whether braiding a child’s, styling a sister’s, or even brushing your own—releases oxytocin, the “bonding hormone” (Journal of Neuroscience, 2017). For generations, South African Indian mothers, aunties, and grandmothers have used these quiet moments not just to tame curls, but to share stories, pass down traditions, and silently say, “You are loved.”
I didn’t realize it then, but every time she twisted my hair into neat plaits, she was weaving her love into me.
The Haircut That Healed Me
After she passed, I couldn’t bear to touch my hair for months. It grew wild, knotted—a reflection of the grief I couldn’t put into words. Then one day, my eldest sister sat me down, her hands gentle but firm.
“Let me fix it,” she said softly, oil warming in her palms.
As she worked through the tangles, my tears fell. But with each stroke of the comb, I felt lighter. Research from Health Psychology (2020) shows that grooming rituals—like oiling or braiding hair—can help process grief, acting as a bridge between sorrow and healing. That day, I didn’t just get my hair done. I began to mend.
The Ponytail That Gave Hope
Last year, I donated my hair to an organisation that makes wigs for cancer patients. Months later, I received a message from a young Durban girl named Priya.
“Thank you,” she wrote, her words simple but fierce. “Now I can look in the mirror and see myself again.”
Studies from the Cancer Association of South Africa (2021) reveal that for many patients, especially young girls, losing their hair feels like losing a part of their identity. A wig isn’t just about appearance—it’s about dignity, hope, and the courage to face another day.
That note sits framed on my dresser, next to my mother’s comb.
The Truth About Hair
Science tells us that caring for our hair boosts confidence (Journal of Cosmetic Science), eases stress (Health Psychology Open), and strengthens bonds (Social Psychological and Personality Science). But deeper than that, for us—for South African Indian women—hair is memory.
It’s the way your mother’s hands felt smoothing ghee into your scalp before your first day of school.
It’s the way your cousins giggled as you all tried (and failed) to copy Bollywood hairstyles.
It’s the way a stranger’s donated hair gave a sick child the strength to smile again.
So the next time you oil your hair or tie it into a plait, remember—you’re not just styling. You’re honouring every woman who came before you, every hand that ever combed your hair with love. You’re carrying forward a legacy of resilience, whispered stories, and silent strength.
And perhaps, without even realizing it, you’re creating a memory that will linger long after the last strand turns silver.
Dedicated to Amma, who taught me that the simplest acts hold the deepest love.
Did this touch your heart? Share your own hair memory in the comments—we’d love to hear the stories woven into your strands.