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.
The hardest part isn't wearing both. The hardest part is the smudge. burkha under my lipstick
Sometimes, I walk into the mosque for Friday prayers, and the aunties look at my manicured nails and tinted lips with suspicion. They whisper about how the West has corrupted me. They don’t realize that the Quran they are holding teaches that God looks at your heart, not the pigment on your mouth. The burkha taught me discipline
I wear the lipstick because I am allowed to be beautiful. I wear the burkha because I am more than just beauty. And makeup, when worn with the right intention,
Let your hijab sit next to your highlighter. Let your prayer mat sit next to your vanity table.
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.
There is a specific kind of silence that comes with being a modern, visibly Muslim woman.