Walking through the sweetness aisles as a young girl, I stood in front of partitions that displayed women of shades and features unlike my very own applying products like mascara or straightening their hair. The wonder world that my white friends indulged in didn’t entice me because I knew regardless of what I did, I’d not appear like the attractive models that were pictured.

Growing up, I didn’t have the privilege of seeing representation of a brown Hijabi woman that loved who she was and wasn’t a negative stereotype of what the media thought Muslim women were like. I used to be always othered, from my jogging pants that I wore in gym class to my colourful hijab that stood out at school pictures. I used to be never ashamed of who I used to be, but I’d still shrink in embarrassment as I used to be surrounded by girls in school, their hands reaching for the material on my head while they asked me how I could wear something like this or if I even had any hair underneath. I used to be the representation of Hijabi women for myself and for everybody around me, from the age of 12 in my Texas middle school to now, as a 20 12 months old and the one Hijabi student at my college.

Hijabi women have constantly been an afterthought within the hair industry. Our unique stories and experiences have been distastefully excluded and this lack of representation only continues to perpetuate the negative perception of Hijabis. We usually are not a part of the false narrative of the “timid and oppressed Muslim woman” that the media likes to push. Every little girl deserves to see a positive representation of herself and who she will be, and Muslim girls usually are not an exception to this. And when the sweetness industry failed me as a young girl, I used to be fortunate enough to have another person teach me concerning the world of beauty. The lady that was my beauty standard, representation, and role model was my mother. She took time to show me how my hair must be loved and brought care of, and the way much beauty it holds.