What Not To Do When You're In Love

01 | He

01 | He

As it turned out, he, was late. I looked around and scrutinised his room as I waited for him to show up. Hasan will be here soon, you won't have to wait for long, some aunty grinned before they left.

I wanted him to see this exclusive display organised for him; the ridiculous amount of makeup, the extravagant jewellery, the stifling perfume and hairstyle. He was not going to see me dressed like this again.

But my sabr ran out soon enough.

Thanking Allah for the privacy, I grabbed the bridal scarf they had pinned so beautifully and pulled it right off my head.

. . . And immediately regretted it. They had fixed it onto my hair, I later realised, and it could come out easily and painlessly, had I been a little less aggressive and removed those pins first.

My clumsy attack had messed it up and now my scalp burned, complimenting my headache.

I groaned in a very un-lady-like manner, and stood up. Hobbling in the heavy dress, I locked the door, checked it once just in case, and then dragged myself to the dresser.

I took a moment to stare at myself.

Every part of me either itched or hurt. It was as if they wanted to make sure I suffered.

Or was I just feeling more uncomfortable because, uh, I didn't want this marriage?

I did look like a model from a magazine. I could not deny it ⏤ they had dressed me well. I had what seemed like every kind of makeup in existence patted professionally on my face, and my hair in an intricate hairdo. The contouring and highlighter had given me new features altogether, and the foundation was a few shades lighter than my skintone. My eyes looked bigger, my lips plumper.

I heard laughter outside and jerked to look away from the mirror.

I took out one pin at a time to loosen the bun, as fast as I could, and shook out of the aggressively heavy skirt at the same time.

I gasped when I had removed all the pins.

The thing on my head right now resembled a sparrow's nest more than it did my hair. It was puffed up several inches off my hairline, filled with knots and hairspray frizz.

I now looked like a warrior on the battlefields.

I wanted to cry.

Actually, I was crying. But more than that, I was freaking out, because suddenly I couldn't see any beauty in what they'd done to my face.

Like a mirage, it was just here, and now gone.

I sniffed.

Where did I keep the make-up wipes, I thought, crying my eyes out. I blinked through the fake lashes that were so firmly fixed. How do these come off, I wondered. Won't they rip my own lashes off if I pull at them?

The hammering in my brain worsened by the minute as I wondered if I should just wash my hair. I was yet to find my nightclothes, and by this point I was not sure if I had packed make-up wipes, because I wasn't particularly in my mind when I had packed . . . and he was supposed to come in any moment now.

My head was killing me, and yet it was void of any real thoughts. I sat on the floor, panicking and fighting tears.

Then I recomposed my head. I didn't have much time.

I pulled the thing on my head into a bun somehow, tackled it with a hair tie, and then proceeded to take off the bracelets.

Soon I had kept the jewellery aside, and went on to search for my nightclothes.