Hijabi. The word stumbles about my tongue in an ungainly fashion instead of rolling off gracefully. When it escapes my mouth, it falls flat. I realize then that I hate it. This word confines me within a box, reducing who I am as a human being to a dress code…
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“It doesn’t matter if it is DKNY, the bag itself is beautiful.” The comment sprung on me like an ambush of sorts, with the fragile veiling of a back-handed compliment. I’d rather buy a beautiful vintage street bag from Sunday Bazaar than an ugly one from Valentino, I silently responded…
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