Free In the Land of Invisible Women by Qanta Ahmed Page A

days.
    Looking at my grave expression, Zubaidah piped up, “I veil because I choose it!” Defiant, her gray-green eyes gleamed. “My parents never required but I always wanted. It is what Allah wants for me. I am not yet strong enough for full niqab, for full veiling, but I do what I can. It makes me happy, Qanta. I don't hate the veiling. Not like my mother!” She exchanged a goading chuckle with her resigned mother. Her mother looked at Zubaidah in dismay, rolling her eyes in contempt.
    As I looked at Zubaidah's shining eyes, which glowed with idealism and spiritual enlightenment, I believed her. There was no doubt that Zubaidah's enthusiasm for veiling was genuine, her passion for her beliefs not fanatical but quietly steely, and I wondered if the glow she had about her, which her mother, in her bitterness and resignation so lacked, was more spiritual, more God-given than simply the elixir of youth.
    I was puzzled as to how such radically different views could emerge from the same family and societal environment, and I wondered how much of her enthusiasm was founded on unquestioning submission to the prevailing norm, following the peers of the day, rather than an active, living choice. After all, unlike her elegantly bitter mother, Zubaidah had never known life before the Muttawa, so in reality how could any of this be a choice, when the head scarf was mandated by law?
    As I cast my eye around the marble room, the amount of hair on display struck me. In a short time, what would have never caught my eye previously was now arresting. Outside, bare heads were a rarity in Riyadh, when all men wore headdresses and all the women were veiled, even the patients. Here, amidst all these exposed manes, I could see I was the only woman with undyed black hair; everyone else was an aspiring redhead or a blonde-in-evolution. Kingdom-wide, female hair was colored along a continuum between the two. Next to these women I was plain, ungilded, colorless.
    Hair had never been a particular concern of mine except that it be quick and easy to manage and above all, in place when I woke up in the dead of night to answer to my patients. Here, where hair was veiled, concealed for most of the time, enormous energy and money went into making it attractive. For whom was all this effort? For the women themselves, I suspected. After all, how many men in a woman's family could care either way? And if no unrelated men were to see one's hair, how gratifying could it be to repeatedly beautify one's own lonely reflection? On a practical note, where did they get their hair done, I wondered. I was acutely aware I would have to find a replacement for Gerard, who had tended my hair for years. For sure, there would never be anyone as skilled here, but didn't these women all look great without access to Fekkai, Licari, Zouary, or Désange?
    As I pondered these observations, an uproarious whoop let loose. I turned to witness a tall and extraordinarily beautiful woman entering the room. Simultaneously stately and mischievous, she caught my eye at once. I signaled her to sit near me. This was Ghadah, another dietician colleague of Zubaidah's. Ghadah had deep, shining, brown saucers for eyes, surmounted by long, pharonic eyebrows and flawless, creamy skin. The expressive, extraordinary eyes dominated her face. She bubbled over with joy. Impala-like, Ghadah was spectacularly beautiful. Hers was the index against which all the women present here measured their beauty in meager, modest comparison. White gold jewelry adorned her throat, wrists, slender fingers, and ears, reflecting against her luminous porcelain complexion, glinting with her every animation. A wedding band studded with diamonds graced her left hand, accompanied by the de rigueur Geneva timepiece. A deep, guttural laugh interspersed her speech, infecting everyone around her. She laughed full-throttle with her head tossed back, mouth wide open revealing imperfect and uneven teeth, an irregularity which