The Vanishing Girl of Kabul: ‘This is my protest against the Taliban’

On a blazing hot day in August, everything changed. 

That morning I had picked my way through the bustle of my city, the earthy streets bleached white by the sun. Wearing my lavender-coloured headscarf I passed the boys selling phone top-up cards and offering shoe-polishing services, their trade spread across thin checkered blankets on the curb. Across the road, a family with barefoot children was begging for change, their arms outstretched. I pushed a note into a grubby palm. So far so normal for Kabul at this time of year. I was off to the beauty salon — my long black hair needed a trim.  

I was greeted in the salon by my stylist, Farzana, a heady aroma of perfume and  hairspray, and the low chatter of women preparing for parties and celebrations. There was a small television flickering in  the corner with the sound turned down so the tinny music on the radio could be heard. It was a familiar female atmosphere, but something felt off. Underneath the sweetness of the beauty products and body scent, I could almost taste the hair dye, the chemicals, something harsh and abrasive. Guided by Farzana, I sat down in the chair next to the thickly curtained salon windows. All was quiet on the streets beyond.  

Farzana was distracted, watching the television. Someone had turned the sound up, and we all turned to look. Members of the Taliban had declared victory in two more provinces. Our Afghan soldiers were not even putting up a fight: They had just walked away from their guard  posts, some even leaving behind their guns. 

This can’t be happening, I said to myself, or maybe I said it out loud. There were big cities in these provinces. What on earth was going on? 

Over the past week, the Taliban had been taking over swathes of the country, slowly and surely moving towards the  capital.  

Time slowed and I felt I was watching these scenes from far above myself. I held my hands before me to check that they were still there. I looked around helplessly. The easy chatter had ceased and everyone was silent. The posters of happy painted faces on the walls seemed to mock us, grinning terribly through their thick lip gloss. We are safe on our walls, they seemed to say. 

I must have made an awful sound, because Farzana turned to me and asked if I  was alright. She narrowed her eyes at the screen. ‘Listen,’ she said, steady and  firm. ‘We’re not going to let anyone tell us how to live. Not now.’  

We held each other’s gaze for a long moment, woman to woman, Afghan to  Afghan. Surely, we seemed to tell each other, after all these years free to live as we chose, this could not be  happening?  

‘If the Taliban show up here,’ Farzana said, her voice edged with fire, ‘I will never give in. Never.’  

A new song began blasting from the salon’s speakers, Lady Gaga’s ‘Rain on Me.’  It was loud and challenging, and woke us from our trance. 

‘So, what are you having?’ Farzana asked, touching my head gently. I untied my  band to release my long black hair, still damp from showering. My mother, Aqila, worried we would lose water if the Taliban captured Kabul, had insisted that morning that the women of our house wash their hair. And so we did, my mother, two of my sisters and I, taking turns jumping in and out of the shower, some still with soap suds in their hair before being elbowed out by the next girl.

Were my days of freedom numbered? I needed to choose my rebellion accordingly. 

‘Can you chop it all off?’  

This drew giggles from the woman next to me, a young bride getting made up for her wedding later that day. Her skin glowed alabaster-white like a porcelain doll, the result of multiple layers of foundation. She sat reclined in the chair,  head tilted back as women on either side took turns applying silver glitter eyelashes, one by one. 

Farzana looked puzzled. ‘All of it, you sure?’  

‘Absolutely,’ I replied, louder than I’d intended. 

Before long a foot of my hair lay across the linoleum floor, and the old me had vanished. 

I had a moment of regret for these thick locks, the result of years of patience, of many evenings spent smoothing coconut oil all over my scalp. Now, small tufts of soft black hair poked out from under my ears. I could hardly recognize myself in the salon’s mirror. 

It was perfect. 

‘This is my protest against the Taliban,’ I announced to no one in particular, but  everyone in the salon already understood. The bride looked up at me, her eyes  illuminated by tiny rhinestones. 

‘Peace be with you, sister,’ she said in a half-whisper as I gathered up my things. I took a selfie, threw my headscarf back on and scurried out.