✍️ The Diary of a Secret Hairdresser
Every day starts with the same nightmare. A pounding on the door. Women screaming. Then silence. This morning, at 5:30 a.m., I woke with my heart racing. Three hours remained until my first client, but fear kept sleep at bay.
Breakfast with a Taste of Anxiety
I sipped bitter tea and broke dry bread with trembling hands. My eight-year-old daughter, Aylin, stared at me with curious eyes and asked, “Mama, are you working today?” I gave a faint smile but stayed silent. How could I tell her I risk my life daily to buy her notebooks and pencils?
A Home Turned Salon
After Aylin left for school, the house transformed. I drew the heavy curtains and covered the dining table with an old blanket. I pulled out my scissors, brushes, and dyes from under the bed. Three years ago, when my salon in Darulaman was shut down, I never imagined I’d hide my tools like contraband in my own home.
First Client: Silent Tears
Somaya, a woman in her thirties, came to have her hair done for her sister’s secret wedding. Her hands were ice-cold. She whispered, “Last night, they took our neighbor… just for wearing nail polish.” As I colored her hair, her tears fell silently onto the apron. I tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but my voice trembled too.
Lunch: News That Chokes
Between clients, I reheated yesterday’s rice. In a WhatsApp group we hairdressers use, news spread that more hairdressers had been arrested by the Taliban’s morality police. When they shared a photo, I froze. One was Farzana, my friend who called last week about hair dye. The food stuck in my throat.
Afternoon: Fear in the Alley
As my last client, Nargis, sat in the chair, a motorbike roared in the alley. We all froze. I switched off the lights. Nargis’ hair was left half-done. When it felt safe to breathe again, I noticed she’d spilled nail polish on her pants. I wiped it with a damp cloth, but the stain remained—like the invisible scars we all carry.
Night: A Moment of Home
When the day ended, I packed my tools into my son’s old gym bag and hid it under the stairs. Aylin brought her homework for me to check. I kissed her and whispered, “I hope you’ll never live in fear like I do.” She didn’t understand, but her small smile eased my heart. Tomorrow, the cycle repeats. We Kabul women have learned to keep hope alive.
Diary Note
Tonight, I wrote in my diary:
“Today, I helped three women see themselves in the mirror. I gave two the courage to embrace love. And I reminded one she’s still alive. If that’s a crime, I’ll always be guilty.”
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All names in this narrative are pseudonyms due to security concerns.
