Americanisms

As I continue along my quest to search for worthy causes to donate my beauty proceeds to and partner with, I came across this eye-opening documentary: The Beauty Academy of Kabul.

Now, before you cinefiles start Netflixing this, be forewarned: There are some uncomfortable scenes of Western insensitivity in this film. I found myself squirming in my seat, rolling my eyes, and yelling at the screen in horror and disbelief - and I thought only Korean dramas could elicit that kind of response from me. Huh. Go figure.

I mean, some of these clueless women volunteers come traipsing into a war-ravaged country with little to no prior knowledge of what these women have been through, let alone the entire country. At the time of the filming of this documentary (released in 2004), after having been invaded by the Soviet Union in the late 70s to early 80s (Kiterunner is an amazing film and book that is set during this invasion), Afghanistan was infamously under fire from U.S. and British forces following the 9/11 attacks, and in between coups, at the mercy of the resurgent Taliban regime. To cut the history lesson short, all of Afghanistan had been to hell and back. Some of the women interviewed for the film recount horrific stories of women's hands and feet being cut off in public, and watching others being doused in gasoline and set on fire on the streets.

On top of that, it is a culture, like many in Southeast Asia and the Middle East today, which firmly believes in the inferiority and oppression of women. Arranged marriages are hardly questioned as they are almost irrevocably accepted. Certain aspects of Muslim culture teach women not to display much of their hair and face in public so what utterly floored me was the fact that the beauty industry thrived and still thrives in the midst of required disguise. During the Taliban regime, women would set up salons in their homes, and maintain clients by word of mouth. Talk about being an entrepreneur. Puts me to shame really.

After getting their hair and makeup done, the women would joke gamely about covering up their new perms or done up faces before seeing their husbands later in the evening. Some women would even cover their faces completely, their burkas literally becoming makeshift ghost costumes you would see on Halloween made out of old sheets, but minus the cutout holes for eyes. There's chilling footage of this in the film - faceless ghosts floating around dusty streets, or kneeling on the floor, holding children. Imagine looking up at your mother and not seeing her.

I mean, why even get your makeup or hair done if no one will see it, not even your husband? It is a commonly, though not always acknowledged, truth that women need it for themselves. I mean, I can't even quite articulate the kind of camaraderie and solidarity I felt with these women as I saw one mother cover up her freshly permed hair before stepping outside onto the street, skirting watchful soldiers holding rifles; she made sure her niqab (Arabic word for sheet that Middle Eastern women use to cover their faces) swiftly covered up the broad smile she wore after seeing her new perm in the mirror. Or the surge of empathy I felt watching a rogue Afghan beauty student in an fluffy Elvis pompadour, a skinny rockabilly necktie, button down blouse and Katherine Hepburn slacks snip her mannequin's hair. I thought, Why bother to express your uniqueness when the risk of calling attention to yourself is quite literally hazardous to your well-being?

Such is the unbelievable nature of the human spirit. I guess the will to live, even at our worst, always trumps the will to shrink back, wither and die. Even in the midst of collective healing and rehabilitating from unspeakable crimes against their humanity, the throngs of women outside the door on opening day spoke volumes about their very desire to live. And not just to survive, but to thrive.

It's important for us ladies to be able to express ourselves. A friend once told me that all women are artists, and that each morning we decide how to create and portray that art to the world. Our bodies and faces are canvasses upon which we paint colors, adorn jewels. We hold our heads up high, groom ourselves and present our best face to the world in the midst of heartache and unimaginable circumstances. The resilience of the Afghan women is a testament to this need for women to draw strength from each other in order to move forward and be walking masterpieces for the world to see. The beauty salon will always - and everywhere - be a unique and safe space in which such restorative affirmation takes place.

Okay but lemme get my rant in here before I leave. Check out this dialogue between an Afghan translator and an American beauty instructor:

Local Translator: Well, we can't keep the women too late because they will get in trouble with their husbands. They are afraid that their husbands will get upset with them -

Insensitive Obnoxious Volunteer (interrupts the translator because she keenly picks up on something important that must be addressed - good thing she traveled all the way from the States to intervene here because otherwise they wouldn't have caught this): Okay so...wait a minute, what is this fear I'm hearing about? I mean, is there something going on at home? Do these women suffer from...verbal abuse, or some kind of abuse or something? I mean, what is that?

Local Translator:...

Luckily, some of the plucky Afghan women stood up to this particularly obnoxious volunteer and boldly pointed out that American women have freedoms Afghan women do not. Cheers to her for schooling the 'teacher' - one of the bravest moments in the film.

Aside from these Americanisms, I highly recommend this film for any aspiring makeup artist or hairstylist, anyone remotely interested in the beauty industry as a whole (most women), and anyone who is interested in what it means to be human (everyone).