It started with a brush full of hair.

I’d always had thick, wavy hair. Nothing fancy, but enough to make my mom call it “your crown.” But after I turned 48, that crown started thinning. Slowly at first—extra strands in the shower drain, a little more scalp showing when I tied my hair up.

Then it got worse.

By 50, I avoided mirrors. The pharmacy became a regular stop—serums, sprays, vitamins with names I couldn’t pronounce. They promised volume, strength, growth. But all they gave me was hope followed by disappointment.

One night, after another failed product made my scalp itch and my wallet hurt, I sat on the floor of my bathroom and cried. Really cried. Not over the hair, not just that—but over feeling like something was slipping away, and I couldn’t stop it.

That same night, I called my Aunt Sumi. She’s 72 and has more hair than anyone I know. Thick. Black. Braided to her waist. I told her everything.

She listened quietly, the way she always does. Then she said just one thing. “Do you have cloves in your kitchen?”

Cloves?

“The spice?” I asked, wiping my face.

“Yes. That’s what I use,” she said softly.

She told me her secret. No brands. No bottles. Just an old recipe passed down from her grandmother, who passed it to her. I’d never once thought to ask.

Here’s what she told me to do:

– Take a tablespoon of whole cloves
– Boil them in two cups of water for ten minutes
– Let it cool completely
– Strain the liquid and pour it into a spray bottle
– Spray it into your scalp at night, massage gently, and leave it in overnight

I thanked her, hung up, and walked straight to the kitchen.

There was a small jar of cloves tucked behind the cinnamon. I opened it and breathed in the sharp, warm scent. I boiled them just as she said. When I strained the liquid into a bottle, it had turned a rich, earthy brown.

I felt nervous. Silly, even.

But that night, I sprayed it into my scalp before bed. The smell was comforting. Like chai and winter. I massaged it in slowly, closed my eyes, and hoped.

Nothing dramatic happened overnight. No miracle. But when I rinsed my hair the next morning, my scalp didn’t feel tight like it usually did.

I kept doing it. Every night. For a week.

By the seventh day, I noticed fewer strands on my pillow. By the second week, there was noticeably less hair in my brush. My part didn’t look as wide. It wasn’t magic—it was just better.

By the end of the first month, my hair felt thicker at the roots. The ends still needed trimming, but I didn’t care. The baby hairs growing in at my temples were the real gift.

The first person to say something was my neighbor, Mrs. Yun. We bumped into each other at the market.

“Your hair,” she said, squinting at me. “Looks fuller. You color it?”

I smiled. “No. Just cloves.”

She laughed. “Like the spice?”

“Yes,” I said. “Like the spice.”

Later that week, she showed up at my door holding a bag of whole cloves.

“Help me make it,” she said.

I did. And that’s how it started.

Word got around faster than I expected. First my sister asked for the recipe, then my cousin who’d just had a baby and was dealing with postpartum shedding.

Soon, I had six women from the neighborhood messaging me, asking if I’d host a little “clove night.”

So I did.

We met in my kitchen on a Thursday evening. I had little mason jars ready for each of them. We boiled the cloves together, and while the water simmered, we talked.

About hair, yes. But also about how aging creeps up quietly. About how tired we were of buying promises in bottles. About how it felt good—really good—to try something natural.

Mrs. Yun said, “I haven’t felt this in control of my own body in years.”

We all nodded.

That night, I realized something. This wasn’t just a hair trick. It was an act of reclaiming. Of choosing care over criticism.

We called ourselves The Clove Circle, half-jokingly. But it stuck.

Every two weeks, we’d meet to make a fresh batch. Some of us added rosemary or aloe vera. Others stuck to the original. But we all agreed: our scalps had never felt this healthy.

A few months in, I was brushing my hair and stopped mid-stroke. There was barely any shedding. My brush was nearly clean.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair wasn’t twenty again—but it was alive. Fuller. Shinier. Softer. I ran my fingers through it and smiled.

Mina, my daughter, noticed too.

“Wow, Eomma. What shampoo are you using?” she asked one morning.

“Just cloves,” I said.

“No way,” she laughed. “That’s so old-school.”

“Maybe. But it works.”

A few weeks later, she called me from college and asked for the recipe.

She’d been stressed. Her hair had started falling out more than usual.

I sent her a care package with cloves, a tiny strainer, and a handwritten note that said:
“Some things don’t need to be new to be powerful.”

Two weeks later, she sent me a selfie. Big smile. Hair tied up, baby hairs peeking through.

“It’s working, Eomma. Thank you.”

I cried when I saw that photo.

Because it wasn’t just about hair. It was about connection. About wisdom passed down. About mothers and daughters and aunties and grandmothers who knew things before the world tried to sell us something else.

I started journaling the changes. Not just in my appearance, but in how I felt.

– I stopped hiding my hair under scarves.
– I looked forward to my nightly routine.
– I felt proud of how I was caring for myself, gently.

One day, a woman from a few blocks away messaged me. She was 62 and had gone through chemo two years earlier.

“I don’t expect miracles,” she wrote. “But I just want to feel good about myself again. Could you show me how to make the clove water?”

She came to the next Clove Circle meeting. Sat quietly at first. But when she massaged the warm liquid into her scalp, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I feel like myself again.”

We all cried that night.

By now, dozens of women have tried the recipe. Some saw fast results. Others took time. But every one of them felt something shift.

Confidence. Calm. Hope.

I even made laminated recipe cards and tied them with twine. Left them in the library, the church, the senior center.

Simple instructions. Three lines. One gentle promise.

Last week, I got a letter in the mail from a woman I’d never met.

She wrote:
“I found your clove recipe at the community center. I’ve been using it for six weeks now. My hair is growing back after a rough illness. But more than that, I feel like I’m healing. Thank you for reminding me that sometimes the simplest things are the most powerful.”

I framed that letter.

Because here’s what I know now:

When you feel like you’re falling apart, when your reflection feels unfamiliar, when nothing from the store shelf helps—turn to what’s old. What’s natural. What’s been waiting quietly in your kitchen cabinet.

Put cloves in your hair. Not because it’s trendy. But because it’s true.

And because every woman deserves to feel strong in her own skin—and under her own scalp.

If you’re reading this and feeling like I once did—tired, discouraged, defeated by the mirror—please try this.

Not just for your hair, but for your heart.

Take the time. Boil the cloves. Let the scent wrap around you like a hug from generations past.

Then spray. Massage. Breathe.

And watch what happens when care replaces criticism.

If this story warmed your heart or gave you hope, please like it.
And if you know someone who needs a gentle, powerful remedy—share it with them.

Because healing, just like hair, grows best when it’s shared 💛