Does My Head Look Big in This? (3 page)

OK, done.

Now, as it’s a weekday I have the whole house to myself because my parents are at work. So I turn the stereo up loud and throw my entire wardrobe on to the family room couch. I pull my floor-length mirror off my bedroom wall and put it up against an armchair. I then try on every single outfit I have and mix and match all my clothes with assorted coloured scarves as I dance to a J.Lo track. I try different styles with the scarves and attempt to figure out which shape makes my face look slimmest. After three hours I’m exhausted, so I collapse on top of a pile of clothes and telephone Leila.

I’ve known Leila since Year Seven. Leila’s like a child prodigy. She’s never got anything below an A+ and if she did she’d probably be hospitalized for post-traumatic stress disorder. She’s fanatically determined to become a lawyer. The only problem is that her parents are more interested in her getting a marriage certificate than a high school certificate.

Leila already wears the hijab full-time. She was in Year Seven when she came to school one day, sat down next to Yasmeen and me in class and told us she’d decided to wear it. We weren’t even surprised because she’s always been more religious than us. She has more guts than anybody I know. If we’re out and somebody throws a comment at her, her tongue whips out a comeback before they’ve had a chance to finish their sentence. So she’s naturally the first person I call for a pep talk.

“I’m bored,” she tells me as soon as we’ve said hello. “There’s nothing on TV. Either I’m stuck watching Oprah give away holidays and cry about her book club or I’ve got to watch Dr Phil tell me why carrots provide self-esteem.”

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“I’m thinking of going full-time.”

“You got a job?”

“Not that full-time! The
other
full-time.”

“Get out!”

“Yeah. I mean, I haven’t decided completely yet, but I’m seriously thinking about it. I’m going to get Mum to take me to Chadstone tonight. See how I go with it.”

“I can’t believe it! We’ll both be wearing it now! How cool is that?”

We talk through
The Price is Right
and then I hang up and call Yasmeen. Yasmeen is the Arabic word for Jasmine. When we go out, Yasmeen likes to call herself Jasmine because she thinks it sounds more exotic. When I point out that it’s usually non-English words which are considered exotic, she tells me to shut up.

Yasmeen’s dad is Pakistani and her mum is British. Her mum converted to Islam when she was a History and Sociology student at university in London. That’s where she met Yasmeen’s dad who, spending most of his free time at the pub, wasn’t exactly Islam’s champion ambassador. Cassandra was in the middle of her thesis on British Muslims. At an on-campus bar one night, she overheard an “Abdel-Tariq” raising a beer to loudly toast “Cat Stevens, the Queen Mum and the glorious mini”. She had found chapter one of her thesis, and her future husband.

Yasmeen has long curly hair down to her waist. At Hidaya she was always getting into trouble for letting it hang out from the bottom of her hijab. The thing is, she’s obsessed with straightening it. Sometimes when I sat next to her I’d detect the distinct scent of ironing aid and Pantene.

Yasmeen’s first response is to tell me I’ve lost the plot. “How can you even think about wearing it at
McCleans Grammar
?”

“Yeah, well, that’s what’s holding up the decision.”

“Well duh! What are you trying to do to yourself? Isn’t it hard enough with a surname the length of the alphabet? Now you want people to wonder if you’re batting for Osama’s team? Stick with anonymity, girl!”

I know Yasmeen is just mucking around and I snort with laughter. “What can I say? No pain no gain.”

“Are you sure though?”

“Nope.”

“How will you know when you’re sure?”

“Don’t know . . . I’ve got until Monday to decide.”

“Why? There’s no time line, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I just reckon it’s better if I do it from the start of semester. Less complicated that way.”

“Well, you know I’ll support you no matter what. I know you’ve got guts. If anybody at school says anything tell them to piss off.

“Anyway, this means we have to go shopping soon and get you a whole new wardrobe. Mix and match spree. What do you think?”

Hmm. Sounds like a plan. My afternoon home fashion parade gave me about ten outfits at the most. If I decide to wear the hijab I’ll be wearing clothes which cover my entire body except for my face and hands. So that means long skirts or pants. I’ve got a zillion singlets and short-sleeved tops but I’ll need more denim and linen jackets to wear when I go out. Something tells me my pocket money isn’t going to be going towards my DVD collection any more.

Later that evening, after my parents have come home, I’m in my bedroom pretending to be absorbed in my chemistry holiday homework in order to avoid setting the dinner table. I take out my To Wear or Not To Wear List and review my candidates. I add a couple of people to my right-hand column. Upon further consideration I’ve decided that our local bus driver’s consistently bad mood on school mornings (he once kicked a kid off because the kid had let out an enormous pizza-breath burp as he bought his ticket) doesn’t give me much comfort that he’ll flash a winning smile at my new fashion sense. But, admittedly, there are those I suspect I’ve underestimated and so I negotiate some people out of one column and into the other. I’m just not convinced Lee Ng down at the milk bar warrants a right-hand column place given he’s half blind and wouldn’t notice if I walked in dressed as a Teletubby.

As I’m amending my list my mum’s voice yells out: “Ya Amal! Dinner! Come and set the table!”

I knew it wouldn’t last.

“
Yallah!
You had all day to study and you wait until we come home? Do you think I’m silly?
Yallah!
”

Even though my parents speak to me predominantly in English there are some Arabic words which are instinctively part of their everyday vocabulary.
Yallah
means “come on” or “hurry up”. When my parents are in a particularly affectionate mood they sometimes prefix my name with
ya
so
I’m “ya Amal”, which means “oh Amal”. When I was little, I actually thought my name was Yaamal.

If I’m in trouble the
ya
is dropped and I’m addressed as a mere “Amal”. It’s not good news.

At dinner I tell my parents that I’m thinking about wearing the hijab and to my disbelief they look at each other nervously. I was expecting a cheerleader routine around the family room. Not two faces staring anxiously at me.

“Hmm, would you prefer I get a tongue ring?”

My dad rolls his eyes at me and my mum sips on her soda water, her eyes fixed intently on my face, as though trying to work out if I’m joking.

“Wow, bring the enthusiasm on.” I slam some mashed potato on my plate and proceed to make a potato castle, scraping the fork against the plate until my mum raises her eyebrows at me, daring me to ruin her dinner set. I proceed to throw a tantrum instead.

“I can’t believe you guys aren’t even happy for me! I thought you’d be ecstatic! Sheez! A little support would be nice! You’re always encouraging me to pray more and talking to me about
finding spirituality
and all that, so why aren’t you happy that I’m taking the extra step? Like you did, Mum? Huh?”

My dad looks away awkwardly, scratching his head. My mum sighs and then leans over and takes my hand in hers.

“We’re proud of you. But it’s a big decision, honey, and you’re not at Hidaya any more. It’s a different environment at McCleans. It might not even be allowed.”

“Yeah right! How can they stop me? It’s up to me whether I want to or not!” I’m acting like I’ve already made the decision. I haven’t, but the thought that somebody else might take that choice away from me is energizing something inside me. Call it what you want. Defiance. Pig-headedness. It’s burning me to think that I might not have the right to choose.

“Ya Amal, don’t be so unreasonable,” my dad says. “Of course it’s your right to wear it. But don’t be under any delusions as to the power of school rules and tradition. Especially at a school like McCleans. It’s not a public school. The system is entirely different.”

“They don’t scare me!”

“Ya Amal, calm down,” my dad says, smiling at me. “We’ll support you but you have to think this through. Are you sure you are ready to cope with such a huge change in your life?”

“What’s the big deal? It’s a piece of material.”

My mother snorts. “Since when do people see it as a mere piece of material? You and I both know that’s being a tad optimistic, ya Amal.”

“So what? I can deal with all the crap . . . I want to try . . . and I want that identity. You know, that symbol of my faith. I want to know what it means to be strong enough to walk around with it on and stick up for my right to wear it.”

My parents don’t say anything for a couple of seconds and then my mum pulls me into a hug.

“How about you give it a go until Monday?”

“You both treat me like I’m some kid,” I say indignantly. “I’m an adult. I can think like an adult too. That’s
exactly
what I planned on doing.”

My parents gaze at me affectionately. “Don’t try to grow up so quickly, ya Amal,” my dad says. “You’ll remember your teenage years when you’re old and wise and treasure the memories of your school days. When I was a kid—”

“Dad!” I moan. “That wasn’t an invitation to tell me about your life!”

“Don’t be so rude, ya Amal,” he says, sitting upright and rolling his sleeves up as though he’s preparing himself for a three-hour lecture.

“I’m not being rude. It’s self-preservation. You’re going to tell me for the zillionth time about how you used to walk through the bitter cold between Bethlehem and your village just to get to school.”

“That’s right!” He’s beaming at me proudly because I’ve managed to remember a story I hear, on average, about twice a week. “We were living under Israeli occupation. The occupiers were making our lives as oppressive as possible to try to force us to leave. My parents insisted I go to school and I valued that privilege!”

“Maa!” I groan. “Tell Dad to give me a break.”

She gives me a disapproving look and then glances away, her shoulders starting to shake. My dad catches her and she bursts out laughing. “Ya Mohamed, maybe tonight you could spare us?”

He pretends to look wounded and she flashes him a disturbingly flirtatious smile. He winks at her and they laugh away like they’re on a first date or something. Watching my parents act all lovey-dovey is barf-worthy.

“So how about we go for a test run tonight?” Mum asks me.

“Let’s go to Chadstone.”

My dad snorts. “How did I know you’d suggest that? It’s your second home. Jamila, Amal normally takes an hour to get ready when she goes to Chadstone. If she can cope with Chadstone, she can cope with anything.”

If you’re my age and you’re at Chadstone shopping centre on a Thursday night with your friends, you’re not there for the sock sales. You’re there to make an impression, muck about at Timezone, hang around the entrances for a smoke and a perve, and to piss off the security guards who see a midriff top or goatee and think “troublemaker”. I wouldn’t ever make an appearance in the tracksuit pants and daggy pullover tops I wear to the local supermarket. Chadstone means make-up, designer clothes, great hair. So basically I’ve got to replace great hair with great hijab in the equation and I’m all set.

At the moment, wearing a tarantula as a brooch sounds less intimidating.

I’ve decided on a navy blue veil and baby blue cotton headband to match my jeans and blue cardigan. I pull my hair back into a low bun and put the headband on. I need the headband as the veil is a silk fabric and will slip off without the headband to grip it underneath. The contrasting shades of blue also spice the look up a little. I fold the veil in half, into a triangular shape, and even it out over the headband. I wrap it around my head and face, taking care that there are no creases and that the front part of my headband is showing. When I’ve perfected the shape I fasten the veil with a small safety pin at my neck. I fling the tail ends across my shoulders and join them together with a brooch.

My top three greatest fears, of which (1) makes me slightly incontinent just thinking about it and (3) gives me a twitchy eye, are these:

1. smart-arse comments (
e.g. I’m standing on the escalator and a group of guys yell out
“
nappy head
”
or some equally original comment
);

2. humiliation (
e.g. toilet paper on my shoes, tripping on my heels, the painful public moments made even more excruciating when you already stand out like a Big Mac in a health food store
);