“So ask away,” she grins with her eyes.
Her voice is bright, laced with mischief.
She sits beside me on the plane. An elongated cloud of black, save for a slim peephole from which she views the world with those eyes, always twinkling – a joke she shares only with herself. And perhaps, others like her.
But who is like her?
This woman who upon strapping on her seat belt turns to me, stretches out a small fair hand with tidy fingernails but not-so-modest silver glittery nail polish – “Hi, I’m Leila” – and as I introduce myself in return, produces a handshake firm with confidence.
The eyes continue to grin, bemused, as I try to address her like I would anyone else.
But in my limited experience, women in hijab have not been forthcoming and so in ignorance and misconceived prejudice, I gape a couple of times, smile politely, turn away but at once intrigued, turn back to to find her still looking at me.
“So ask away.”
I stare at her, uncertain. And even though I know exactly what she means, ask, “What do you mean?”
“The questions. I see them in your eyes.”
Stare even wider.
“I won’t bite, I promise.” Grins even more. “You can ask me anything you want.”
“Are you hot?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. I have three layers under here. My hair stinks. I have to wash it every day, twice at a time!”
I proceed cautiously, surprised by her candor.
“How long have you been wearing it ?”
“The hijab?” She smiles. “Since I got married, two weeks ago. There’s my husband, over there.”
She points with her thumb (it’s rude to point with your fingers) to a man with his back to us in the window seat across the aisle, staring out as the plane starts to move. Note he is dressed in nothing more than shorts and a t-shirt.
“We’re on our honeymoon.”
She flashes a gold band embossed in a fancy silver pattern.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She chimes, loudly appreciative. Leans towards me, the gold band still on display.
“You like it?”
A little ostentatious for my liking but I’m not about to offend her.
“It’s a beautiful wedding ring.”
“Oh, this is just the engagement ring. The wedding ring’s much bigger. Diamonds everywhere,” she laughs. “Can’t wear it out. Someone might steal it. So I make do with this plain old thing instead.” She chuckles mischievously.
Her English is perfect. Her accent, distinctly British.
“What did you wear before you got married?”
“In Saudi Arabia, I kept my hair covered. But as soon as I went overseas – I’ve been to London about six times – the head dress came off.”
Her eyes twinkle again, a hint of mischief.
“You studied in London?”
“No, just for holidays with my family.”
A wealthy cheeky woman in hijab with flashy taste.
“I love languages,” she keeps chattering. “The moment I heard English, I knew I had to learn it.”
“You speak it so well.”
“So do you.”
Touche.
“So you’re from Saudi Arabia?”
“Actually, my family is from Yemen and we moved to Saudi Arabia when I was a kid.”
“May I ask…?”
“I told you. You may ask anything you want. Come on, don’t be shy.”
Okay.
“How old are you?”
“Take a guess.”
Ah, how I loathe guessing a woman’s age.
“Twenty-three.”
She grins.
“Twenty-five.”
Grins even more.
“Twenty-eight?”
“Why do you go older and not younger? Because I am wearing a hijab?”
And before I can think of an answer, she announces, “Eighteen. I am eighteen years old.”
No Fucking Way!
“How old’s your husband?”
“He’s 29.”
“How did you meet him?”
“In Saudi Arabia, we don’t meet men. It’s all arranged. Although I fell in love before this.”
“With another man?”
She nods. “He broke my heart.”
“How did you meet him?”
“On the internet. In a chat room. I posed as a guy and then I fell in love with him and I told him and he left me.”
I blink in awe, the writer in me taking it all down. Every single word.
“Does your husband know?”
“No.”
“Your parents?”
Shakes her head fervently.
“My father would kill me if he found out. You don’t do this in Saudi Arabia. You can’t talk to a man. Not on the phone, not in person, not on internet. But lots of girls do it. You just have to make sure you don’t get caught.”
And so we’re chatting like old friends. Now I’m sure she meant it when she said I could ask her anything.
“Was it your choice to wear the hijab when you got married?”
Shakes her head. This time slowly.
“My husband chose it.”
“And you had to obey?”
“Absolutely.”
“He is my husband. I do as he says.”
“Can he beat you?”
“My husband can do with me as he pleases.”
“Do you resent him?”
She gives me a strange look.
“For making you wear this?”
“Oh no… It’s perfectly normal. He doesn’t want anyone else to look at me.”
“Well, then, you must be very beautiful.”
Either that or he is extremely selfish. Or both.
But she squeals with delight, truly flattered by my words. Slaps me on the thigh.
“You see, with us, the woman is a diamond to be treasured. The man pays a lot of money for this diamond. And of course he doesn’t want anyone else to see his diamond for fear they will steal it, so he hides it. But just in public or in the presence of other males.”
“Even his father or brothers?”
“Even his father or brothers. Unless your family is open-minded like my father’s. My mother doesn’t cover her hair with his brothers.”
“So once you’re home, it’s off?”
“Once I’m home, everything’s off,” She lowers her voice. “The hijab, the clothes. I dance around naked.”
She bursts into laughter. And I with her.
A diamond to be treasured.
What about your husband? Isn’t he a diamond too? Why can’t you cover him up from head to toe?
Things I’d like to say but do not. Questions I’d like to ask but fear I might push my luck.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asks, turning the tables.
“Please.”
“Do you have children?”
“I have a girl. She is eight.”
“When you were pregnant, did you get grumpy for no reason and sleep a lot?”
“I slept a lot. And got pretty emotional, yeah.”
She sighs. “I think I might be pregnant.”
Two weeks of marriage, pretty quick.
“I will buy a pregnancy test when we land. But I’m not yet ready to have kids.”
Of course you’re not. You’re eighteen!
“I don’t want to get fat. And my husband might lose interest in me and go find another woman.”
“Do you work?”
“I’m eighteen. I just finished my A-levels!” she exclaims.
“Were you hoping to work?”
“I wanted to be an engineer but you’re not a woman if you do that. And my husband won’t let me work in a job where I have to deal with men which leaves me with teaching. I don’t want to be a teacher.”
“You want to be an engineer.”
“Or an interior designer. I would love to decorate other people’s homes.” She claps her hands, excited by the thought.
I gaze down at her shoes. Glittery silver sneakers with gold sequenced socks pulled over them.
The loudest hijab-wearing woman I have ever met.
The hostess appears with a tray of drinks, staring at Leila, her eyes also full of questions.
“Thank you,” sings Leila as she grabs a cup of orange juice. Then lifts her mask to drink.
Under the mask, a glimpse of her face. Oval-shaped. Flawless skin. Julia Roberts lips. A slim high nose. And those large gorgeous eyes. She is a stunner.
We chat on and on like this for the rest of the trip and when we land and it is time to go, she grabs my hands and squeezes them.
“Did I answer all your questions? Are you satisfied?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Good. Now go and tell everyone what I just told you so that more people can know about girls like me and next time when they see someone like me, they won’t be afraid and have all those questions in their eyes.”
She looks to her husband who flashes her a timid smile. It’s obvious who the tiger is in this relationship, hijab or no hijab.
She turns back to me.
“He is smiling because I do this everywhere I go.”
“Chat to strangers with questions in their eyes?”
“Exactly.” She squeezes my hands. “I’m glad I met you.”
“I’m glad I met YOU. And don’t forget that pregnancy test.”
She grins. “Maybe it won’t be so bad if I’m pregnant. I can stay at home and watch TV the whole day and eat anything I want.”
Those twinkling eyes, cheeky as ever.
“What do you watch?”
“Anything. As long as it’s reality. I LOVE reality TV,” she grins as she leaves to follow her husband behind the queue.
At Baggage Claim, two massive zebra-printed suitcases slide around on the carousel. As they reach the other end, I spot Leila’s husband heaving the zebra-printed luggage onto a trolley.
Of course. Who else?
I smile and wave at the cloud of black. She waves back.
Owner of extra-large zebra-printed suitcases.
Hijab-wearing virago with dreams of becoming an engineer, who can’t wait to go home so she can strip and dance around naked.
I wish her luck and hope she never runs out. Of Spirit. Love. Life. 
If I think about it, the day I discovered my origins and therefore myself, was the day I discovered my grandmother’s feet.
