Bad Hijab Day

I don't intend to use this blog as a space to rant and moan, so it's a bit of a shame that my first post is inspired by a bad day. Nevertheless, I do feel the need to share, if only to release some of the angst and embarrassment!

It is also worth mentioning here that I don't intend my blog to be primarily centred around my faith, despite my mention of it in this post.  Like many other bloggers out there, I am merely sharing my thoughts with the online community and, incidentally, I happen to be Muslim.

Yesterday was the 6th day of wearing a headscarf in public after choosing to 'take the hijab,' as they say.  A scarf-wearing friend had warned me previously that I will have good days and bad days.  When the day was over, I knew what she meant.

It didn't bode well when I woke yesterday with only half an hour to get to my first personal training session at my local gym (much needed after Ramadan!).  I made it on time, but it meant that I didn't have time to figure out how I could wear the hijab during a workout without looking ridiculous and overheating.  I knew that if I started playing around with different looks I would still be standing in front of the mirror long after I was due on the treadmill.  Sounds terribly vain, and I'm well aware that one of the purposes of wearing the hijab is to remove vanity, but I think I've clocked up more mirror-gazing hours in 3 weeks of scarf-wearing than I have in my 26 years of hair exposure.  That is a different matter though, and possibly a post for another time...

So, what did I do?  I dashed out of the house, scarf-free, with minutes to spare for the bus.  Yes, vanity ruled - I chose to forgo my Islamic principles in favour of punctuality and not feeling self-conscious. I won't bore you with the details of my work out, but it was a contributor to the bad day, since it resulted in a sensation that I can only describe as a simultaneous panic attack, asthma attack and heart attack.  After only 7 minutes of interval training, I had to stop and sit on the end of the treadmill with my head between my legs to stave of the dizziness.   This was made all the more embarrassing by the fact that I had, moments before, described myself as 'moderately fit' to my now bewildered personal trainer.  

After a stern word from the PT about the virtues of a good breakfast and proper hydration (more things to add to the 'Sorting My Life Out' list), I walked unsteadily to the changing rooms, relieved that I could hide my purple face with my hair.  I had bought a headscarf to wear after my work out, and so after my shower, the wrapping and pinning began.  This was done in the privacy of a changing cubicle rather than in full view of other club members around the mirrors.  I am a fair-haired, blue-eyed and pale-skinned convert, and this paired with the hijab naturally raises questions and eyebrows.  I didn't feel strong enough to face these after the near-fainting incident moments before. 

So, I hid away, and even sacrificed drying my hair to avoid potential stares  (thinking back on it, I could have dried my hair and then returned to the cubicle to put my head scarf on! Oh well).  Having successfully manoeuvred the scarf around my head to create something that I thought looked half-decent, I then realised that I had made a big hijabi faux pas.  I was wearing a t shirt with a rather plunging neckline, which would have been fine if my new chiffon headscarf wasn't completely see-through.  Oh dear.  Further manoeuvring and pinning, all the while getting hotter and more flustered, and I finally achieved a modest version of my original creation. Right; now to face the world.

I dashed out the gym, avoiding eye contact with familiar faces lest they recognise me, and rushed past the receptionist without saying my usual 'goodbye'.  Walking to the bus stop, on the way to my next destination, I took some deep breaths and enjoyed the cool wind against my still burning cheeks.  I told myself it was OK.  I am OK.  People are OK.  I am lucky enough to live in a tolerant, multicultural city where everyone is free to practice their own faith.  I don't look strange.  I am fine.  It's all fine.  I realised I'd been staring at the floor whilst having this little chat with  myself and I must have looked very strange.  I quickly looked up, and was met with the confused gaze of every single person waiting at the bus stop.  They were all looking right at me.  Correction; at my chest.  I looked down, and the same pleasant cool breeze that had been soothing me was also blowing my scarf sideways to reveal my pale, sun-starved chest and cleavage.  Argh!!

Luckily, the bus arrived seconds later, so everyone's attention was diverted away from me and onto their pockets and purses, hands frantically scrabbling for scrunched up DaySavers and loose coins.  I was also busy, one hand desperately clinging to the flimsy material covering my modesty, the other opening my purse and grasping at any change I could see.  Not very easy, and of course this process wasn't finished by the time I stepped onto the bus.  This meant trying keeping my balance and dignity while producing the rest of the bus fare and walking gracefully to my chosen seat, all the while the driver sending the bus hurtling towards the next stop with each jerky acceleration and gear change.  Obviously, the reality was that no dignity or balance was maintained, and having probably paid far too much fare in my haste to stuff as many coins into the tiny red slot as possible, I stumbled and staggered my way to the nearest possible seat.  I say ‘obviously’ because anyone who has had the pleasure of being a passenger on a bus knows that it is near impossible to walk on a moving bus without lurching forwards/sideways into an elderly passenger/pregnant woman/other vulnerable member of society.  I doubt even a mountain goat could keep its balance.

Anyway, I was now en route to the town centre for my next appointment of the day.  I have been seeing a private counsellor for a couple of months, to avoid a relapse of Bulimia, which I have recently ‘recovered’ from for the umpteenth time.  For those who are not that familiar with Bulimia, the reason why ‘recovered’ is in inverted commas is the same reason why alcoholics never touch a drop of alcohol again after sobering up.  You never recover from Bulimia.  I am currently symptom-free, but I could lapse at any point.  This all sounds very gloomy and pessimistic, I know.  I’m not gloomy about it.  It’s just the reality of the situation, and it’s why I see a therapist; I want to remain symptom-free for as long as possible, hopefully for the rest of my life.

So on the bus hurtled, and eventually I got off at my stop; the same stop I arrived at everyday when I was working.  I taught at a boy’s grammar school for three years and left in the summer term just gone.  I left because I was unhappy, and it is still very raw for me.   As the bus approached the familiar bus shelter outside the neighbouring college, I watched swarms of the school’s sixth form students descending en masse to the town centre to hang out in McDonalds or Costas.  I glanced at my watch.  Of course! It was 1 o’clock, Friday:  the sixth former’s ‘study’ afternoon.  I stepped off the bus, laden with bags, and unwittingly caught the eye of some of my former year 12 students.  Some offered wide, boyish grins and cheerfully shouted “Hi Miss!” as they half-walked, half-jogged past me.  Others didn’t seem to recognise me, much to my relief (shame and panic were washing over me in great, crashing waves), and others eyed me cautiously, evidently not sure of what to say. 

All my students knew I had converted while I was at the school, and all deserve credit for their nonplussed (and in some cases even supportive) attitude towards my choice.  The scarf, however, adds a new and foreign dimension to my conversion.  Although the scarf does not make me any more religious, or a ‘better’ Muslim (after all, it is just a piece of cloth!), it is viewed in the eyes of some as a symbol of piety and even extremism or fundamentalism.  This was my view before learning about Islam.  I used to treat veiled women with extreme caution in case I did or said anything that insulted them or was counter to their beliefs.  It was the equivalent to a nun walking into the room; I suddenly talked in a very hushed manner, refrained from swearing, and avoided crude topics of conversation.  I also tried not to stare.  The other view is, of course, that some women are forced by their husbands or family to wear the hijab.  This is an understandable opinion, given the news coverage of the Taliban regime in Afghanistan where thousands of women received oppression and even abuse.  There is still a hangover from that time in some areas of the country, with extreme social pressure rather than the law stopping women from walking out on their own clothes.

Hurriedly walking past the crowds of students, noting that they are still in the habit of spilling onto the busy main road when the narrow pavement reaches full capacity, I my eyes darted across the buildings to my left.  Building society, sandwich shop, tattoo parlour (strangely located in middle class suburbia) and… aha! Hairdressers.  My counsellor is located in the building upstairs, so I quickly disappeared from the crowded street and into the safe haven of the doorway.  Pressing the bell, I thought about the next hurdle to jump after this session; just my driving lesson to go.  I feel a comforting sense of anonymity in the car, so that shouldn’t be too traumatic; just the usual near crashes at cross roads and blind panic approaching roundabouts.  Sheer bliss compared to the first half of the day.  Although I’m sure my driving instructor feels differently…