I’m mildly embarrassed to tell you this, but here goes.
Last year I took a course on how to dress myself.
Yeah. I did that. I spent money on it.
Why the **** would I do something so ******* dumb when we could have been making ******** movies, I hear you say?
But you know what? It is, hands down, one of the best investments I’ve ever made. And I have spent a crap ton of money on ‘courses’.
And that’s because I learned so much.
I love clothes.
I love colour.
I love movement.
And I’ve realized that I’m 33 years old and nobody gives a hooping funt what I wear.
Nope, not a a flying flamingo
Not even a defenestrated fizzwaggle.
So I dress for me. If I like what I see in the mirror, dayuummm. Mashallah. I give myself a grin. I’m keen to slay my day.
I need not get a single compliment about my outfit. That’s not what I’m looking for. I’m looking after me.
I’ve spent a lot of years poring over my face. Poring over my pimples. Poring over my pores. I wish I could grab my 20-year-old self by the shoulders and shake her, “Don’t buy that make-up. It will do precisely jack all. All it will do is make you look like a reject from Twilight. Or a mime that managed to escape their box.”
Ten years ago, had you heard of highlighters? No, right?
Yeah. That’s something that appeared in the last five years.
I don’t know about you but I sweat. I don’t need to catch the light. The light catches me.
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Assalam alaikum and Eid Mubarak, family! Marvel at the orange I finally have the courage to wear.
I never would have the courage to wear this Fanta shade of orange if I hadn’t internalized this belief:
No one cares what we are wearing except us.
What if we attract too much attention on the train? What if someone attacks us?
That person would have attacked us if we were wearing only black o the fliest pair of Chuck Taylors in the country. Violent Islamophobes don’t see clothes. They see targets.
We’ve got only a limited amount of years on this earth. Let’s choose joy. We’re privileged enough to have a choice.
P.S If you love make-up, more power to you. I can’t be bothered anymore. It’s no fun.
P.P.S. I just spent a whopping $10 on a BB cream. And I started using it yesterday. I look exactly the freaking same. My problem is, if I spend money on my face, I expect to look like Miranda Kerr. It’s make-up, not plastic surgery.