The arrival of spring in Italy is quite the event—chilly winds gently recede, aperitivo tables are laid out and a general feeling of ‘la dolce vita’ hangs cheerily in the air. I had just moved to the historical town of Florence (my first time as an adult staying away from India) and I was determined to make the most of it.
As the outdoor temperatures became somewhat bearable, the girls from my class organised a late-night dinner party for an informal icebreaker. I was still just settling into my new apartment (not to mention a whole new routine and culture), but I was excited to dive into my evening makeup bag for this.
I picked my dewiest foundation so it wouldn’t turn patchy by the end of the night (my skin had been feeling drier since moving away from the hot, humid air of Mumbai) and went for a light, almost pale pink blush to add some colour. For the lips, I took a departure from my usual berry red stain for a natural nude matte.
At dinner, when a friend complimented my hair by saying that it was looking particularly shiny and sleek that night and asked if I had done something special, I almost told her about my pre-shampoo champi ritual before I quickly bit my tongue. I just nodded graciously and mumbled a ‘thank you’, wondering why I didn’t share this little tip with her.
Growing up, my mother would always oil my hair before washes, a step I vehemently detested and eventually rebelled against in my teens. A greasy, oily head of hair was anything but cool and nothing she could say would convince me to put oil in my strands again—that is, until the evening of the dinner party, by when a month’s worth of cold, dry winds had made my hair dry, damaged and frizzy. All I could do to regain its health at that moment was a warm oil champi, even if I was not ready to tell anyone about it just yet.
When I saw the pictures from the evening, my hair was indeed shinier than it had looked in months, but I also realised that despite my best efforts at makeup, I still stood out. Was that such a bad thing? As I began to settle into this new land and my new life over the next few weeks, I thought, ‘perhaps not’.
Being fashion students, most of my classmates (and professors too) were deeply curious about and appreciative of Indian culture—the rich history of our textiles, pungent flavours in our cuisines and even Bollywood. For them, everything about India was awe-inspiring and moodboard-worthy. With time, I realised that India also has a unique, vivid colour sensibility that sets it apart from the world; and I began leveraging that in my work extensively.
As I opened up and shared snippets from my South Asian legacy with my European friends, it stirred up a newfound acceptance and pride for my own culture within me. I realised that standing out was not such a bad thing after all and began embracing our differences. Kajal, which I had ditched almost completely since landing in Italy, now was my everyday go-to for creating bold, kohl-lined eyes that slowly became my signature. I beamed with pride when on beach trips my deeper skin tone was considered the benchmark level of tan for my lighter-skinned friends. I started picking vibrant, deeper shades of blushes and lipsticks for my warm complexion. I regularly started putting coconut oil in my hair before washes (yes, willingly now) and often wore a light, jasmine scent that reminded me of home. Over a few months, I rediscovered the nourishing benefits of Indian beauty rituals that I had not given much credit to until now, like how my hair felt silkier and softer now, even on the windiest of days, or how a besan ubtan was a natural, economical method for head-to-toe exfoliation.
Towards the end of my course, I hosted a Diwali party for which I invited all my friends home. This time, I didn’t hide away my rose water vials and coconut oil bottles; and when they asked how I had managed to calm my breakouts overnight, I promptly shared with them my grandma’s recipe for a multani mitti face pack, without biting back my tongue this time.
