Beauty intervention

“Big sister, how do you like my hair?”
She asks sweetly as she touches the puff of hair on the top of her head. Her hair’s chemically treated straight and painted black.
“Looks good dear” I respond.
She gets up and stretches down the tight skirt she’s wearing, as I stare in disbelief. I can’t believe she has the guts to walk down the street wearing that. My aunties are aging and busy caking makeup over their faces in the meanwhile. They’re gonna walk arm in arm with her proudly down the street so that everyone can stare at them. All of a sudden, they divert their attention randomly at me and talk about how horrible I look.

“Wear some makeup! Dress better! Fix your hair! Don’t you want to stand out?”

Those days are gone. I’ve lost that kind of interest. I’m no longer a teenager. I don’t need that type of attention anymore. Everything feels too late. It just feels different nowadays.

I say, “Don’t need to” apathetically and continue to recline on the bed. I feel like a faded, colorless fish. The fancy and glamorous girl in me, dead for years.

My aunty’s large eyes grow massive and she comes to grab me by the arm, “Get over here! I’m not going to let you embarrass us!”

My aunties hold me down and style my hair, smoothe out my eyebrows, and give my clothes a fitting. I enjoy beauty sessions with them. However, I managed to get away with not getting my face caked with makeup.

“Oh my god, look at how pretty she looks now!” they all congratulate themselves. They rave about how much they’ve improved me.

It’s an odd yet a special feeling. Around my young-at-heart aunties, I’ll always be a little kid that needs fixing… no matter how much we all age together…

My aunt grabs me by the waist and makes me sit on her lap like an overgrown baby, and we pose for a picture, with genuine smiles.

2018-10-27 09.32.07

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Noori

There’s a beautiful bird out in a forest. She flies her little wings up and down the hilly terrain near the glistening, cold Himalayas. They refer to her as Noori; this beautiful, colorful bird. On rare occasions they get a glimpse of her striking beauty. Yet always, they hear her tweeting her silly, sweet songs to herself. Tunes that echo across mountains, resonate through valleys, and penetrate through souls.

She makes me cry, this little bird.
I’d sacrifice a limb for her. I’d die for her.

There’s a little bird that sings her sweet songs in a forest. Her innocence is what lovers fall for. Her beauty is what poets write of.

Including one,

who is my father.

noori1