Henna, once a quiet tradition tucked away in living rooms and weddings, is now boldly claiming its space on the streets, red carpets, and social media feeds. But here’s where it gets controversial: as this ancient art form goes mainstream, questions of cultural appropriation and authenticity are bubbling to the surface. Let’s dive into how henna is being reimagined, reclaimed, and celebrated—and why it’s sparking conversations along the way.
The night before Eid, a familiar scene unfolds across British high streets from London to Bradford. Plastic chairs line the pavements, and women sit elbow-to-elbow, their hands outstretched as artists transform them with intricate henna designs. For just £5, you can walk away with palms adorned in swirling patterns. But this isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s a cultural phenomenon that’s spilling into public spaces and evolving in ways no one could have predicted.
In recent years, henna has leaped from family gatherings to global stages. Actor Michaela Coel showcased Sudanese-inspired motifs at the Toronto Film Festival, while singer Lara Raj of Katseye sported henna decor at the 2025 Video Music Awards. Younger generations are using henna as a canvas for art, political statements, and cultural pride. Online, the trend is exploding: UK searches for henna surged by nearly 5,000% last year, and social media creators are sharing everything from faux freckles to five-minute floral tutorials. Henna isn’t just a tradition anymore—it’s a movement.
And this is the part most people miss: for many, the relationship with henna hasn’t always been straightforward. Growing up, I remember sitting in Birmingham salons, my hands freshly painted with henna at my mother’s insistence for special occasions. But it wasn’t always met with admiration. Strangers asked if my little brother had scribbled on me, and a classmate once mistook my henna-painted nails for frostbite. For years, I hesitated to wear it, fearing unwanted attention. Yet, like many young people of color today, I’ve come to embrace it with pride, seeing it as a powerful symbol of identity.
This reclaiming 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 if they’ve faced racism, they’re returning to their roots.’
Henna, derived from the Lawsonia inermis shrub, has been a staple across Africa, South Asia, and the Middle East for over 5,000 years. Its uses are as diverse as its names—mehndi, ḥinnāʾ, lalle—ranging from cooling the body to blessing newlyweds. But beyond its practical and aesthetic purposes, henna has always been a vessel for community and self-expression. ‘Henna is for the masses,’ Patel emphasizes. ‘It comes from working people, from villagers who grow the plant.’
Here’s where it gets thought-provoking: as henna gains visibility, the line between appreciation and appropriation grows thinner. While some see it as a universal beauty trend, others argue it’s essential to honor its cultural roots. HuqThat’s Nuzhat El Agabani puts it bluntly: ‘We want people to understand henna as a legitimate art form, just like calligraphy.’ Their inclusive approach extends to fundraisers for Palestine and Sudan, as well as Pride events, creating safe spaces for queer and trans individuals to engage with the tradition.
For Aminata Mboup, an industrial designer and sculptor based in Toronto and Dakar, henna (or fuddën in Wolof) is a deeply personal connection to her Senegalese heritage. Using jagua, a natural dye that stains deep blue-black, she honors her grandmother’s tradition. ‘When I wear it, I feel like I’m stepping into womanhood,’ she says. ‘It’s a sign of grace and elegance.’ For Mboup, henna is more than decoration—it’s a daily declaration of identity. ‘I have a sign of where I’m from and who I am right here on my hands,’ she explains.
Pavan Ahluwalia-Dhanjal, founder of the world’s first henna bar in London’s Selfridges, echoes this sentiment. ‘People use it as a political thing, a cultural thing, or just for beauty—and I respect all of that,’ she says. Despite initial skepticism, her henna bar has attracted a diverse clientele, from tourists to South Asians. ‘I want henna to be as accessible as lipstick or nail polish,’ she declares. ‘It’s a beauty staple.’
But here’s the question: as henna becomes more mainstream, how do we ensure its cultural significance isn’t lost? Is it possible to appreciate henna without appropriating it? And what does its evolution mean for future generations? These are conversations worth having—and henna, with its enduring stain, is the perfect catalyst. After all, as Mboup puts it, ‘Henna reminds me that there’s strength and virtue in what is concealed and protected. It’s a stain—and it’s mine.’
What’s your take? Is henna’s rise a celebration of culture, or does it risk diluting its meaning? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep the conversation going.
