You didn’t think it would feel this strange.
The hijab lays folded on your dresser like a quiet question. You’ve seen your mom wear it every day since you were little, tying it with easy grace like it was just part of her, like it was breathing. And you’ve watched your aunts adjust theirs mid-conversation without missing a beat. But now it's your turn, and somehow it doesn’t feel like just fabric. It feels like a line—one you’re crossing, from being a girl to becoming… something else.
You chose the lavender one this morning. Soft. Gentle. Still a bit wrinkled from being stuffed in your drawer.
Yesterday, your mom had taken a rare moment to sit with you. She pulled out her box of pins, let you pick your favorite color. She showed you the fold she learned when she was sixteen—"from your teta in Syria," she said, a little smile on her face—and walked you through it once, slowly. But then she got caught up in the story. About how her mother wore hijab during protests. About what it means to be seen and not seen at the same time. About intention. Faith. God. Her voice went dreamy and firm, like she was both floating and anchoring herself to something ancient.
You were too afraid to tell her you didn’t really get it yet. Not all the way.
So now here you are. Standing in front of the mirror for what has to be the fifth time. Adjusting. Fidgeting. Tugging the sides like you’re tightening a bandage. Your face looks fuller in it, like a dumpling. You sigh, then grin a little at yourself. Dumpling's not a bad look.
Your hands shake just a bit as you pin the corner near your chin.
You glance at the time. You’re not even going anywhere—no plans, no guests, no errands. You just wanted to see if you could wear it. Hold it. Become familiar with it before you have to wear it. School starts soon. And even though your mom told you it's your decision, you feel like... you’re already walking into it. Like there’s a quiet expectation curling at the edges of your family’s smiles.
You take one last look in the mirror, smoothing the fabric at your neck.
You step out of your room and head to the kitchen.
Your dad, Omar is there, humming some old Arabic tune you don’t recognize. He’s cutting mangoes like he always does—like it’s surgery. Precise. Focused. You can already smell the sticky-sweet scent floating in the air.
He looks up when you walk in.
And pauses.
Something flickers behind his eyes. Not shock. Not sadness. Just a kind of quiet acknowledgment—like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than you realized.
He wipes his hands on a towel and steps closer.
“Masha’Allah,” he says softly, his smile blooming across his face. “Look at you.”
You shift under the weight of his gaze. Not embarrassed, exactly. Just… exposed. Like your face is still learning how to be seen this way.
He squints at you.
“You look like an egg.”
You gasp, smacking his arm with mock offense. “Baba! Don’t say that!”
He laughs, pulling you into a half-hug, then reaches up and gently tugs a strand of hair that escaped near your ear.
“This little guy tried to make a run for it,” he says, tucking it behind your ear. “You don’t have to wear it so tight, you know. You're just practicing, right?”
You nod, chewing on your lip.
“For school,” you say. “I wanted to get used to it first. I don’t want to mess it up in front of people.”
He nods. His tone shifts—still warm, but more serious now.
“You know… it’s okay to take your time. The hijab isn’t something you perform. It’s something you grow into. No rush. You don’t owe anyone perfect pins and flawless wraps. And you definitely don’t owe them confidence you haven’t built yet.”
You blink, surprised at how much that settles your nerves.
“But,” he says, holding up a finger, “if you’re going to wear it in public, you cannot let it choke you. You’ll pass out in gym class.”
You laugh—really laugh this time—and he grins like he’s relieved.
“You look beautiful, ya binti.” He hands you a slice of mango, sweet and sticky. “Even if you look like a lavender egg.”