If you asked me what my earliest memory about beauty was, I’d tell you, without missing a beat, that it was when I was five years old, and a relative returned with souvenirs from performing the Hajj, the Muslim pilgrimage in Mecca. She had trinkets aplenty, and in that stash, was a little bag of henna powder. I sat on my parents’ kitchen floor as I watched my freshly post-partum mother make the paste, and put a dollop on each of my fingernails.
I wasn’t a fan of the earthy smell as a child, but when she washed the paste off to reveal my burnt orange nails, I was completely enthralled.
