I have been a bit lax at updating the blog with my new looks. I have however been taking pics 🙂 So shall be posting them one by one.
Here was yesterdays look.
Its summer and I love the contrasting pastels 🙂
When did our self worth become so tied up with Hollywood dreams?
I have two gorgeous, beautiful friends. They keep telling me how they feel fat, flabby, ugly and unworthy.
They are anything but.
How do confident, young, gorgeous, professional women get reduced to pinching the fat on their tummies, and counting spots?
One of them wants a chemical peel.
The other is on a weight loss regime which makes her feel guilty for every calorie that passes down her starved gullet.
Look, I am no Pocahontas either.
However, somehow, I have always just accepted my body as is. Imperfect as it is. I have just …accepted it.
My thicke thighs – accepted.
My cellulite – accepted.
My flabby arms – love em.
My spots – meh.
As I have grown, I have even grown to not only accept every aspect of my body ..but also to actually find a way to LOVE it!
My flabby arms? They jiggle, and they are great 🙂 I honestly love them. They remind me of someone who once loved them too.
My thicke thighs and chunky legs that I thought were unattractive – someone else convinced me they were SEXY. And now, I believe it too.
My spots – they are like freckles. Just part of my skin. Part of me.
Its just that…our bodies are what they are. Allah made us so.
Instead of trying to fit into an ideal Made In Holywood, try to wear your own skin.
…..that’s how I felt about 3 months ago.
Now, after spending all this time with my neurotic fat-hating friends…I have started obsessing too!
I am basically writing this post to remind me that I actually DID like myself as me.
Because I have lately started dreaming of long, glossy, hollywood hair. Weaves I know, yes. But the dreams continue 😦
I have begun taking close-ups of the dark circles under my eyes and inwardly agonising that I am beginning to grow old
What a bag of contradictions ey?
I needed to write this post to remind us all. That sometimes the Holywood brainwashing does a good job at making us feel lousy about ourselves.
All that airbrushing, make up artists, and weaves.
None of it is real.
But it sure does look pretty….
Now everyone. Let’s do this together.
Repeat after me.
I. Am. Beautiful. Just. As. I . Am.
I. AM. BEAUTIFUL. JUST. AS. I. AM!
One more time for those at the back!
Have a Beautiful weekend my lovelies 🙂
I have natural hair.
A big ass. Sexy. Afro.
I am an Arab girl. With an afro.
This is my coming out.
Because in the Arab world, as with every other ‘white obsessed’ culture, whiteness and sleek, straight hair is celebrated.
My grandmother has black silky hair to her butt.
My brothers have ‘good hair’
Silky soft, beautiful locks.
I, the only girl in the family, decided to go and grow a fro.
While everyone else chemically alters their hair, and pretends their hair is nice and swishy.
I decide. To flaunt my fro in front of everyone.
My mother, needless to say, was horrified.
My brothers, do not know how to deal with it.
They have spent years being told, that sleek and sexy is the definition and bench mark for ‘Beauty’
These last couple of weeks, I spent at home with my three brothers.
They had no idea how to react to my fro.
My oldest and youngest brother just ignored my hair.
To be fair to them, they had never seen my hair in its natural state.
Neither had I, since I was 11!!
So being the polite, well raised boys they are. They ignored it.
Ignored the tumbling mass of curls peeking from under my cap, like they couldnt see em.
They did not say: ‘ Hey QQ, your hair is different what did you do to it?’
Not one comment.
My other middle brother, however, bless his misguided soul….
Told me to go to the salon.
Lord help him!
You can understand what kind of crazy I unleashed on him.
I had been waiting. Waiting. Waiting. On someone to comment.
And here comes this unwitting brother.
Telling me to go to the salon?
AND THEN. AND THEN. Has the audacity to start giggling with my mum about how HE is the one in the family who has GOOD HAIR.
I saw red.
I unbraided my hair (it was in twists)
Fluffed out my fro into a MASSIVE thing.
And came at it, all hissing and spitting.
I put my ‘Shaniqua’ on.
‘GOOD HAIR? GOOD HAIR?’ I SAID.
`God gave us all different hair. My hair is like this. How God saw fit in his wisdom to make it. You want to say God was wrong to create me this way? Do you?? You think my hair isn’t nice? I need to go to the salon to fry it into some kind of limp chemically altered poor excuse for hair? Do you now? Well TOUGH!! This is MY hair. Its on MY head. Deal with it!’
Yes. I was all up in his face like a black girl on an American drama.
He looked like he regretted opening his mouth (good)
And I think he realised what he had said was bang out of order.
And I like to think I schooled him.
I will not let anyone tell me otherwise.
I have worked to accept myself with this hair, in a world where whiteness, and sleek, straight hair is lauded.
I have worked to conquer that low self esteem that drives every woman to the salon every month to get a relaxer.
I shall not let anyone mess with that.
Least of all my family.
My mother gave up trying to convert me back into the world of the creamy crack (what we ‘naturals’ call relaxers)
Well, not entirely.
But…kind of. 🙂
I LOVE LOVE LOVE my natural hair.
I love that it can be curly. Or straight. Or an afro. Or a sexy up do.
I love that I can do my own hair.
I spend hours twisting it, braiding it, having rollers in it, deep conditioning, henna-ing, trying different products.
I love that I am not reliant on some stupid salon to make me feel good about myself.
That I do not worry about my ‘kitchen’ showing.
I don’t worry about my ‘real’ hair coming through and making me look horrible after a few months.
I really, really, really, don’t worry about people making me feel like I am not beautiful because my hair isn’t bone straight.
Or that I do not fit into their expectations of what a real ‘Arab’ should look like.
I have an Afro.
Its my hair.
Deal with it.
STOP LOOKING UP MY SKIIIIIRT!!!
Ok, not really. LOL.
You see, as a Muslim girl, we wear extra layers of clothing: A hijab (headscarf), long sleeves, baggy trousers, voluminous top/dress. Sometimes we may even throw on an abaya (outer Islamic female covering) Basically, according to Islamic law, only a woman’s face and hands should be visible. Most of us have covered our heads since we were around 11/12 years old. Basically all our adult lives. Without it, we would and DO feel nekkid.
So every time you ask me HOW MY HAIR LOOKS LIKE underneath my scarf, that’s the equivalent of you asking me WHAT COLOUR MY PANTIES ARE?!! or WHETHER YOU CAN LOOK UP MY SKIRT!
I have heard it SOOO many times.
‘What does your hair look like?’
‘How long is your hair?’
‘What colour is your hair?’
Oh FOR HEAVENS SAKE!!!
Its. None. Of. Your. Business.
What I choose to cover up is suuuuually (surely) my business and mine alone.
What difference does it make if my hair is long/short/black/blonde – you aren’t going to see it. Period. Deal with it.
But its difficult for people to deal with it. In a society where we judge others by appearances, people feel short-changed when they do not have enough ammunition to judge. It’s like you have effectively blindfolded them. And you are forcing them to accept you as an unknown entity. They don’t know if you are :
So hey, when someone asks me what I have underneath my headscarf, my response varies depending on the lunar cycle. I may be blonde and short-cropped one day, while the next day I may shout : ‘Purple dreads!’
Eventually they stop asking. They have to get to know me to make an opinion. And inevitably they realize …emm…it really doesn’t matter what my hair looks like.
I’m crazy anyway. LOL.
Hijab is beautiful.
Happy Ashura Day y’all (16th Dec)
So I have never really found a productive use for my breasts in my twenty-something years. They are just appendages that really get in the way more than anything. EVERY girl who has been to the gym or plays sports knows what I’m talking about.
Anyone who has found it difficult sleeping on their front can sympathize.Yes boys, its hard to sleep on them! From underwires that dig into you, pre-menstrual mastitis and an accidental elbow shoved into your breast as you walk past (hey, they do poke out and get in the way-its understandable-but no less painful) What are breasts good for????????
Why do women all over the world insist on increasing their size, and men of all creeds lust after them? Here I have compiled a list of ways that breasts can contribute to the betterment of yourselves, AND society.
1. The Indian Pocket
If you live in Nairoberry, you know your handbag is not a safe place to keep all your mula. Guys have socks. And extra pockets hidden in coats, shirts, even boxers! Girls have handbags, and the ‘Indian Pocket’ (My mum’s codename for the bra) Have you ever hear a robber say : ‘Empty you’re bra or I’ll stab you!!!???’ No? Well, there you go.
Just realized I may be giving future would-be robbers fodder for their machinations of evil. Hmmm. In that case: ‘I DO NOT KEEP MONEY OR MY MOBILE ANYWHERE OTHER THAN MY HANDBAG!!!’