Growing up with my parents, we socialised with two groups of people: those in front of whom it was necessary to cover my hair, and those in front of whom my hair was free. My parents’ civil servant colleagues and some distant cleric relatives of my mother fell in the first group (she actually used to wear the full black chador when seeing that family), close family and pre-revolution old friends were in the second.
The reason my parents (my father, mostly, who in those days was paranoid about his reputation and his job) gave were simple: We are government employees. We follow the rules of this government, otherwise the government will not give us our daily bread, in the form of a monthly salary and a good university job. I, who preferred to spend most of my time in my room reading and rereading novels and tended to bite guests with my eyes, agreed to the rules, which were similar in the households of most my friends and peers.
The younger generation growing up were not so compliant. So, I can remember furious whispered arguments in the corridors with my sister, or my sister-in-law, when they refused to cover their hair to greet Mr. So and So who had come for a visit and tea. In fact, I can remember my brother-in-law begging me to persuade his high-school sister to cover her hair when she served tea to his boss who was visiting them, in fear that he might be so offended by her flowing mane that he would stop working with him. Those young girls had different strategies. Sometimes they didn’t come out to meet male guests at all, but would sit seething in the back bedrooms. Sometimes they would come forward defiantly with uncovered hair, causing winces of agony all around. Sometimes they would cover their hair, but in such a way as to make a mockery of the whole thing: use a loose silky shawl which left most of their hair visible anyway, bare their necks and chests so their hair would be covered but their boobs would almost graze the noses of the male guests they were serving tea, use enough make-up to cover all the models in a Dior fashion show. I don’t actually think anybody lost a job for it- times were supposed to be getting more relaxed- I am now speaking of the Khatami era, when we were all friends together and dialogue was the catchword of the day.
But I was never rebellious like that. It was an easy enough thing to do to please my parents after all. When you see religious people, you just cover your hair. It is a mark of respect, as the elders said.
So, fast forward to Halifax. I register the princess in a local evening sports class, and lo and behold, amongst the teeming parents at the door of the class waiting for their young ones, I run into compatriots of the “R” type. Husband: elderly high-ranking university employee in Tehran. Wife: much-younger deeply-veiled housewife. Fervent supporters of Mr. A. We cannot avoid talking. And I am agonizing aware of my near-nudity.
The next session of the sports class, I catch myself wanting to change from my usual summer day clothes (tight t-shirt, tight skirt above the knees, bare legs- yes, the sun has actually deigned to shine) into something more covered, more decorous, more respectful. I feel myself almost under the mesmerising spell to show respect to them by dressing more appropriately. Respect. I can hear them say it. We have to respect them.
I scream at myself. I am no longer in the household of a government employee. I shake the respect-thoughts out of my head. And I dress myself and my daughter as I please.
