But underneath that glossy sheen is the burkha —or rather, the hijr (the protection). It is the shield. It is the whisper that says, Your value is not in your neck, your hair, or the curve of your ears. Your value is in your substance.
To the outside world, the lipstick is the mask. It is the armor of the corporate world, the signal of confidence, the Western shorthand for "put together." It says, I am here. I am loud. I am ambitious.
There is a specific kind of silence that comes with being a modern, visibly Muslim woman.
Choosing to cover in a world that wants you naked is an act of radical agency. Choosing to wear lipstick in a community that says beauty is only for your husband is also an act of radical agency.
Sometimes, I walk into a boardroom wearing a silk headscarf and a power lip, and the women look at me with pity. They assume my husband picks my clothes. They don't realize I picked him because he lets me pick my own clothes.
The hardest part isn't wearing both. The hardest part is the smudge.
The burkha taught me discipline. The lipstick taught me joy. Islam does not demand ugliness; it demands modesty of the gaze. And makeup, when worn with the right intention, is simply art on the canvas God gave you.
So, to the woman looking in the mirror right now, confused by her reflection: Stop trying to peel off one layer to reveal the "real" you. The real you is the sum of the layers.
But underneath that glossy sheen is the burkha —or rather, the hijr (the protection). It is the shield. It is the whisper that says, Your value is not in your neck, your hair, or the curve of your ears. Your value is in your substance.
To the outside world, the lipstick is the mask. It is the armor of the corporate world, the signal of confidence, the Western shorthand for "put together." It says, I am here. I am loud. I am ambitious.
There is a specific kind of silence that comes with being a modern, visibly Muslim woman. burkha under my lipstick
Choosing to cover in a world that wants you naked is an act of radical agency. Choosing to wear lipstick in a community that says beauty is only for your husband is also an act of radical agency.
Sometimes, I walk into a boardroom wearing a silk headscarf and a power lip, and the women look at me with pity. They assume my husband picks my clothes. They don't realize I picked him because he lets me pick my own clothes. But underneath that glossy sheen is the burkha
The hardest part isn't wearing both. The hardest part is the smudge.
The burkha taught me discipline. The lipstick taught me joy. Islam does not demand ugliness; it demands modesty of the gaze. And makeup, when worn with the right intention, is simply art on the canvas God gave you. Your value is in your substance
So, to the woman looking in the mirror right now, confused by her reflection: Stop trying to peel off one layer to reveal the "real" you. The real you is the sum of the layers.
