Even though I prepared myself mentally for this "dressing-down" business last night... I, in my half awake/half asleep stupor went about my normal, autopilot Monday morning ritual: Yawn while I get out of bed with my eyes closed; rub my eyes all the way to the shoilet (my toilet is also a shower); pee; bump into furniture like a drunk man as I make my way to the kitchen upstairs; breakfast consisting of corn flakes and strong, black coffee; back downstairs to shower (in the shoilet, of course); out the shower, engage rigorous towel-drying procedure; roll-on; underwear; body lotion; GHD my hair while in my underwear; full body deodorant; get dressed in an inexplicably meticulous order: left sock, right sock, t-shirt, jeans, belt, boots, earrings, watch on right wrist, leather strap on left wrist, black beaded rosary around neck, silver pendant bathchain around my neck, Vega access card around my neck; perfume; grab Vuka keys, helmet and schoolbag; head for the door...
Crap!
The intervention starts today. Rewind at lightning speed and don my fez and all black qurta suit. A qurta is a long salaah top. Salaah is the prayer of Muslims. As I'm walking out, I pass a mirror and realise the back of my mohawk is still visible from under the fez and... I still had my accessories on. I paused for a moment to ponder this...
This process is already embedded in me. My hair has always been my biggest source of vanity. These accessories I embellish my body with on a daily basis make me feel comfortable and attractive. If someone were to see me dressed this way walking in the streets, they'd immediately notice my fashionable hairstyle underneath this holy facade and know I was a fraud. Here I stand, supposedly humbled in appearance, in front of one of a hundred mirrors I'd normally check myself in everyday, and what am I doing? Checking to see if I look okay. I feel like an idiot. I take my fez and accessories off and cover my hair in a plain, black beanie. I keep my watch on. I mean, I'll need to know what the time is, right?
As I hop onto my Vuka, my salaah pants hooks on the key on the side and rips at the crotch. Greeeeeaaat. Talk about a bad omen. This is gonna be one interesting day.
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