Sitting on the prayer mat after Fajr salah, my chirping friends notify me of the arrival of the sun. Just their innocent babble is enriching; uplifting. They peck at the tiny red flowers my mother lovingly planted outside my room.

Hair needs to be either dead straight or entwined in Goldilocks curls. Anything in between is a no-no. Waves signify complacency and let’s not even get started on the frizz.

I recently was at an Islamic event in an unfamiliar city and was in need of a ride back to where I was staying. By chance, I found a really sweet sister who was willing to drop me off.

Days turn to nights, nights to days. Awake, asleep; asleep, awake.

I like to reminisce about the days I used to be bald. Not many people have had the experience, or should I say privilege, of knowing what it feels like to run your fingers through absolutely nothing but a palette of warmth resonating from the top of your head, smooth as a
baby’s bottom.