By the Fig and the Olive

3

"You're normally an 8, maybe 9 out of 10, but with the hijab you're like a 5/6"

On a bright summer day you felt the need to open your mouth, and hand me a bill with your perception of my worth.

And I took it. I stupidly wore that "8" with pride

Because you had singled me out enough to label me an 8, not a 5

Yes the hijab dragged my score down, but it was a quick fix

It was a garment, and I was an "8" without it

But when I took to my bedroom mirror at night

Without the soft chiffon, I was still a 5

When I met you again, I had painted my face

So you'd graciously swear to keep my score in place

And the number, it followed wherever I went

In a bright neon number above my head

I was paranoid people could see it too

So I did was I could to make sure that it grew

But the score kept on dropping, and I was so tired

next time we met, my jeans were much tighter

My hoodie unzipped, my hijab much more loose

I traded in God for a number from you

I looked at the mirror and I saw a 2

In a fit of pure rage I threw off the hijab

Followed it up with a sigh of relief

Truly my mirror said: "You are a 10"

My reflection in turn, reassured and confirmed it

On the streets I heard whispers from ghosts unseen

They followed, and haunted and taunted me

"You're just like the rest and then some, and by the by, trust us, you're now a 1"

My next plan was fillers

I booked an appointed

I sat and I waited

They came and they pointed

Doc held up a needle, explained what it was

Then asked me real' sweetly: "And you're here because?"

And I opened my mouth to say "I want a 10"

But I just as quickly shut it again

I didn't want this, I wasn't a number

The office was suffocating, I couldn't breathe

I needed out, it wasn't too late

That woman had yet to alter my face

I walked through the streets with a placid expression

The city felt cool without fear and old tension

About halfway through I hailed a cab

And deliberately tightened, a chiffon hijab.

Aisha. B