Growing up as a British Gujarati girl with darker skin and thick hair, I was constantly reminded that I didn’t fit the mould of conventional beauty. I was 6 years old when I was first teased for “looking like a boy” because of my thick sideburns, bushy brows, and hairy arms and legs. No one around me looked like I did, even the other South Asian girls, so their words made me feel like there was something inherently wrong with me.
By 8, I was desperate to change. I remember searching for my sister’s razor and trying to use it, only to cut my finger. I just wanted to feel normal and accepted. That moment marked the start of my struggle to reconcile my identity with the pressures to conform to beauty standards that weren’t made for someone like me.
As I grew older, I became consumed by beauty rituals designed to erase the very things that made me, me. I vividly remember the first time I waxed my face. I thought it would help me feel beautiful. Instead, friends and family told me I looked like a ghost. The stark difference between my natural face and the hairless version left me feeling even more insecure, as though I couldn’t win no matter what I did.
In South Asian culture, fairness and hairlessness were seen as the epitome of beauty. I was forced to use chana nu lot (a gram flour paste) to remove hair and lighten my skin. My darker complexion, further amplified by acne and hyperpigmentation, made me stand out in ways that didn’t feel positive. Receiving comments like “Why don’t you look more like them?” "If only you got rid of all this hair and fixed your skin". I was 13. These words chipped away at my confidence and left me feeling like I was never enough.
I had moved through every form of hair removal - from waxing, bleaching, threading, shaving, and eventually got laser hair removal in 2017. I thought being hair-free would finally make me feel worthy. But as time went on, I continued to find new things to be insecure about, and I felt more and more disconnected from my soul.
Fast forward to COVID at 26, everything began to change. I started sharing raw, unfiltered images of my skin and questioning the patriarchal and Eurocentric beauty standards that had dictated my choices for so long. But as I began to unlearn these ideals, I was confronted with sadness, guilt, and disappointment in myself.
I was mourning the parts of me I had erased to fit into a mould I didn’t even want. My once-thick, dark body hair was now sparse, and I longed for the presence of what I had once been ashamed of. The guilt spread to my natural curls as well, which I had lost after years of overusing straighteners to force my waves into sleek, smooth styles. In trying to fit in, I had severed a connection to my roots, my heritage, and my authentic self.
Through my healing journey, I learned to forgive myself for the choices I made when I didn’t know better. Today, I see beauty in what I once rejected. My worth was never tied to my hair or my skin - it never was. My beauty lies in my authenticity and in the journey of learning to love myself just as I am.
Now, I feel free. Free from the societal expectations and patriarchal standards that once trapped me. Free to embrace the parts of myself I was taught to hide, and free to live life on my own terms.
As a self-love coach, I help women dismantle societal expectations and reclaim the parts of themselves they’ve been told to hide - like their natural hair - breaking free from cycles of shame and self-doubt. Together, we rewrite their narratives and help them reclaim their beauty and worth on their own terms.
To the little girl holding that razor in her hand, I wish I could tell her this: You are already enough. You always have been. And one day, you’ll wear every part of yourself with pride.
-Virali
