Where Vanity and Wudhu Collide.

I miss getting braids. The hours spent sitting still while someone tugged at my scalp like it owed them money. The long acrylic nails, tapping rhythmically against my phone screen as if I were composing a symphony of vanity. I miss it.

My first set of box braids with extensions was on my 10th birthday at a small salon in Wuse2. It didn’t feel like a big deal then, just another thing girls did to look nice. Since then, I’d gotten braids on and off, the kind that swung down my back and made me feel put together. I still prayed with them, because I believed what I’d always been told: prayer is between Allah and oneself. It never felt like a contradiction. The smell of burning hair, the sticky shine of Blue Magic, the soft hum of conversation, all of it felt normal, even comforting. I didn’t feel transformed, just included.

And then there were the nails. French tips. Clean, glossy, and feminine in a way that made me feel like I had my life together, even when I didn’t. Pink was my favorite, because it was already my favorite color. There was something about the crisp white line at the tip of each finger that made everything I touched feel a little more elegant. I’d tap them against my phone like I was composing something important, even if it was just a text. But then came the guilt.

So, i stopped.

Somewhere around the time I turned twenty, i began to feel like I was performing a version of myself that didn’t quite align with the one kneeling on my prayer mat. The nails made ablution feel like a negotiation, and the braids beautiful as they were, started to feel heavy. Not just on my head, but on my spirit. I didn’t feel clean, not in the way that matters when you’re trying to speak to God. It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet shifts. A late-night tahajjud that left my chest aching. A verse from Surah Baqarah I couldn’t shake. The slow realization that the mirror had started to feel louder than my prayers.

Now, my hair lives in soft buns or under wraps. I still sometimes braid it, but without the extensions that made me feel like a sinner. My nails are bare, but sometimes covered with henna stains. My mornings are still. I feel lighter, not in appearance, but in soul.

Maybe I’ll go back to it someday. Sit in a salon chair again, feign small talk while the stylist turns my head like a steering wheel. But even then, it’ll feel foreign. Like greeting an old friend you once loved, but now can’t quite look in the eye without remembering who you used to be. The desire to return is complicated. The only time I could indulge is during my period days, which last barely a week. That’s hardly enough time to justify the expense, especially when getting my nails done costs a small fortune. So, where is my value really? How do you reconcile your wants with your reality? How do you carve out space for something that feels like you, when the world insists you choose between what you need and what you desire?

It was fun. It was fly. But perhaps some things belong to a younger self, the one who hadn’t yet started asking too many questions about faith, identity, and the politics of edge control.