Your hands, your story. That’s the powerful message behind the resurgence of henna, a centuries-old tradition that’s no longer confined to weddings and living rooms. But here’s where it gets controversial: as henna explodes in popularity, from the red carpet to social media feeds, questions of cultural appropriation and authenticity are bubbling to the surface. Is this a celebration of heritage or a commodification of tradition?
The night before Eid, a familiar scene unfolds across British high streets. Plastic chairs line the pavements, filled with women eagerly awaiting their turn as artists transform their hands into canvases of intricate henna designs. For just £5, you can walk away with a temporary masterpiece. But this isn’t your grandmother’s henna. Once a private ritual, it’s now a public phenomenon, reimagined for a new generation.
From family gatherings to global runways, henna has transcended its traditional boundaries. Actor Michaela Coel stunned at the Toronto Film Festival with Sudanese-inspired motifs, while singer Lara Raj of Katseye adorned her hands for the 2025 Video Music Awards. Young people are embracing henna not just as decoration, but as a form of art, political expression, and cultural pride. TikTok and Instagram are flooded with tutorials, from faux freckles to five-minute floral designs, showcasing how this ancient dye has seamlessly integrated into modern beauty culture. UK searches for henna skyrocketed by nearly 5,000% last year, proving its surging popularity.
But for many, the relationship with henna hasn’t always been straightforward. I remember sitting in Birmingham salons as a teenager, my hands freshly painted with henna at my mother’s insistence, only to face awkward questions from strangers. Did my little brother draw on me? Was I suffering from frostbite after painting my nails with henna? For years, I hesitated to wear it, fearing unwanted attention. Yet, like many young people of color today, I’ve reclaimed it as a source of pride, proudly displaying my henna-adorned hands more often.
This reclamation of henna from cultural erasure resonates deeply with HuqThat, a London-based artist collective redefining henna as a legitimate art form. Founded in 2018, their work has graced the hands of singers like Joy Crookes and collaborated with brands like Nike and Converse. “There’s been a cultural shift,” says Ruqaiyyah Patel, a member of the collective. “People are proud now. Even those who’ve faced racism are reconnecting with their roots.”
Henna, derived from the Lawsonia inermis shrub, has been used for over 5,000 years across Africa, South Asia, and the Middle East. Its uses are as diverse as its names—mehndi, ḥinnāʾ, lalle—ranging from cooling the body to blessing newlyweds. But beyond its aesthetic appeal, henna has always been a symbol of community and self-expression, a way to gather and wear one’s culture with pride.
“Henna is for everyone,” Patel emphasizes. “It comes from working people, from villagers who grow the plant.” Her colleague, Nuzhat El Agabani, adds, “We want henna to be recognized as a legitimate art form, just like calligraphy.” Their work extends beyond beauty, appearing at fundraisers for Palestine and Sudan, as well as Pride events. “We wanted to create an inclusive space, especially for queer and trans individuals who might feel excluded from these traditions,” El Agabani explains. “Henna is intimate—you’re trusting someone with your body. For queer people, that can be daunting if you’re unsure of who’s safe.”
Their approach reflects henna’s versatility. “Sudanese henna differs from Ethiopian, North Indian from South Indian,” El Agabani notes. “We tailor designs to what each person connects with most,” Patel adds. Clients are encouraged to bring personal references—jewelry, poetry, fabric patterns—to create unique, meaningful designs. “I want them to experience henna they’ve never seen before,” Patel says.
For Aminata Mboup, an industrial designer and sculptor based in Toronto and Dakar, Senegal, henna (or fuddën in Wolof) is a deep connection to her Senegalese roots. She uses jagua, a natural dye from the jenipapo fruit, which stains her skin a deep blue-black. “My grandmother always had darkened fingertips,” she recalls. “When I wear it, I feel like I’m stepping into womanhood, embodying grace and elegance.”
Mboup, who’s gained attention on social media for her stained hands and personal style, now wears henna daily. “It’s important to incorporate it into everyday life,” she says. “I perform my Blackness every day, and henna is one way I do that. It’s a declaration of identity—a sign of where I’m from, right here on my hands.”
Applying henna has become a meditative practice for her. “It forces you to pause, to connect with yourself and your ancestors. In a world that’s always rushing, there’s joy and rest in that.”
Pavan Ahluwalia-Dhanjal, founder of the world’s first henna bar in London’s Selfridges and holder of two Guinness World Records for fastest henna application, recognizes its multifaceted nature. “People use it for politics, culture, or just beauty—and I respect all of that,” she says. Her journey began at a family wedding, where her passion was initially dismissed. “Even my own culture didn’t take me seriously,” she recalls. But after appearing on Dragons’ Den in 2024, where she was told henna wouldn’t appeal beyond her community, she proved them wrong. “For the first six years, most of my customers weren’t from my culture at all.”
Today, her henna bar attracts a diverse clientele, from tourists to South Asians. “I have a team of 25 pro-artists who conduct workshops across the UK and even fly to Los Angeles,” she says. Her goal? To make henna “as accessible as lipstick or nail polish.” “It’s a beauty staple,” she declares.
But its newfound visibility hasn’t come without challenges. The line between appreciation and appropriation is often blurred, as people adopt the art without understanding its roots. Ahluwalia-Dhanjal remains pragmatic: “Some think it’s only for festivals or South Asians, but its year-round popularity shows how many cultures appreciate henna.”
Across continents and generations, henna’s meaning endures. For Mboup, that’s the essence. “Henna reminds me of the strength in what’s concealed and protected. It’s a stain—and it’s mine.”
But what do you think? Is the global embrace of henna a celebration of cultural diversity, or does it risk diluting its significance? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep the conversation going.
