Bye, Bye Barbie

Alison Colwell

Word Count 1438

The captain announces we’ll be landing shortly. Across the aisle, a woman stands up and pulls out a long black robe and headscarf from her carry-on bag. When she catches me staring, she smiles.

“Do you have a scarf?” She gestures at me. I nod. My dad brought me one the last time he visited. Now he’s offered me a home for a few months, some place my husband can’t find me. I’ve been travelling for twenty-four hours without sleep. First a ferry from my hometown of Victoria to Vancouver, then a flight to London, an eight-hour layover, and now this second flight to Riyadh.

The woman slips on her robe and drapes the scarf round her head, completely covering her hair.

“Best put it on before we land,” she tells me. I glance around the cabin and see the few other women also covering up. Even in my tiredness, I experience a flash of apprehension as the plane touches down.

…

"Are you sure?" The hairdresser stands behind me, fluffing at my hair nervously. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My platinum blonde hair falls in waves past my shoulders.

"I'm going on a holiday. Some place hot. I want you to cut it off."

I try to project a confidence I don't feel. For the past three years, my husband has governed my appearance, he’s controlled every aspect of my life, but now I'm trying to define myself. Starting with my hair. I don't want to look like Barbie anymore. I never did.

The hairdresser picks up her scissors. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror.

I close my eyes, and her fingers slide through my hair as she begins to cut. When it’s bobbed to my ears, she takes me to the sink to wash it. I flinch as I step over the pile of hair on the floor and keep my eyes away from the mirror. Just because I’m sure, doesn't mean I won't cry. Hair wet, she sits me back in the chair and this time cuts in earnest. I keep my eyes closed. I can’t imagine myself with short hair. I can’t imagine myself as something other than what I’ve become.

She blows my hair dry, then stands behind me, holding the mirror.

"Is this what you wanted?"

And I finally open my eyes and meet my reflection in the glass. Barbie’s gone. It’s been years since I’ve seen my real hair, free of dyes, chemicals and perms. I look like I’m thirteen, not twenty-one. I run my fingers through my hair. It’s short, like a dogs, and soft. I don't recognize myself.

"Is it okay?" she asks again.

"It’s perfect. Better than I imagined." I see the relief in her smile. But truthfully, I never pictured anything. I was caught up in the idea of getting rid of the old version of me, rather than imagining what would fill the space.

I smile at the girl in the mirror. I could grow to like her, I think.

…

The expat westerners working in Saudi Arabia live in walled compounds. My dad and stepmom live in a British one. It’s small, with only eight duplexes built around a central swimming pool. There are two narrow gates, and the men park their cars outside on the street. Inside the compound are trees and manicured gardens. It’s peaceful. Clean. Each morning, I dive into the small pool, and swim lap after lap, fifty, one hundred, two hundred, more and more as the weeks accrue and the restrictions imposed on me because I’m a woman become harder to cope with.

Fifty yards to the right of the back gate is the American compound. It’s massive, filled with street after street of little bungalows. Security guards police their gate. They have a pool too, and a store and a doctor’s office. Inside the compound, kids ride their bikes up the streets. Being inside the American compound is like being at home. Almost.

My stepmother and I often cross the no-man's-land of the Riyadh Street, between our compound and the American one, cloaked in our long black Abayas, with black scarves wrapped over our heads as we hurry towards the American gate. The security guards watch our approach and wave us quickly inside.

My dad, like most of the men, works six days a week. On Sundays, he drives us out of Riyadh. The rest of the time, we stay inside the compound walls or take a bus with the American women. The American base runs twice daily bus outings for wives who want to shop. Buses run between prayer times, to ensure that none of the western women are out of the compound walls when the Muezzin calls the faithful to prayer.

When I’m wandering aimlessly through aisles of high-end department stores or the open-air souks, I stare at the Saudi women. As well as the Abaya’s and headscarves, they also cover their faces. It feels like women have been erased, leaving a vaguely feminine black shape in their place.

In the safety of my bathroom, I dress up like them, and look in the mirror. I don’t even recognize myself. I don’t look like a person.

When they’re not shopping, the expat wives engage in an endless series of coffee mornings. Gathering in their perfectly clean houses, echoing the same tired gossip over and over again. I find the coffee mornings as stifling as the tall walls that surround the compounds and keep us safe from the glances of the Saudi men.

I came here to figure out who I am, and what I want, but instead of exploring my identity, I spend my days reading and painting watercolors like some Jane Austen character.

This is also not me.

…

The roof of our house is flat with a four-foot wall surrounding the edges. In the corner is the water tank for the apartment. My dad has switched off the hot water heater down below in the bathroom, so the water inside the hot water tank stays cool because of the air conditioning. The sun scorches the cold-water reservoir on the roof. When I arrived here, it took me a while to remember that the cold tap came out hot, and the hot tap gave cold water.

During the day, I only go up there when my stepmom gives me a load of laundry to hang on the clothesline my dad has strung across the roof. And I prepare myself with my sun hat, sunglasses and shoes to protect me from the heat. When I emerge on the roof, the light hurts my eyes. It is the burned-out light of old photos, where everything fades to white. I set my basket down and start pinning up clothes. After ten minutes, I’m done. I run back across the roof, checking the first clothes I hung up. The thin dresses and t-shirts are already dry, but I leave them. I'll come and retrieve the clothes after the sun has gone down.

At night, the roof is perfect. The tiles radiate heat that warms my bare feet. From the roof, I can see the city lit up, hear the call of the Muezzin on hundreds of loudspeakers. Standing at the edge of the roof, the hot wind carries the smells of the desert into the city. I fantasize about bringing a rug and some pillows up to the rooftop. Here the desert is real, even standing in this walled enclosure on the edge of the city. Here I can imagine freedom.

Beneath my feet, the apartment is all air conditioning and thick carpets and a matching three piece living room set. My dad and stepmom are downstairs watching Star TV. I wish I could show them this, but my stepmom wouldn’t think it an adventure to climb three flights of stairs to sit on pillows on the roof. That’s not why dad worked so hard to buy her the new living room suite downstairs. They’re content with their choice. But that’s not what I want for my life.

I gave myself three months in this beautiful but inhospitable country. Three months in a place where I'm not even supposed to show my face, to figure out who I am, and where I’m going, and what I want. Questions that were once answered by my husband.

Now it’s my turn.

So, I stay up here alone. Not every night. But often. And I lean on the wall and watch the lights of the city and the tapestry of stars overhead. And my heart speaks in the quiet.

Alison is a writer, mother, domestic violence survivor and community organizer. Her work has been published in several literary journals including: The Humber Literary Review, The Ocotillo Review, Roi Faineant Literary Press, Hippocampus Magazine, and Grist. She lives on Galiano Island, Canada. Connect with her at: alisoncolwell.com.