used to the Western way of things.
Unlike me, they didn’t marvel at the fact there were flushing toilets in the hostel, standing and flushing them over and over, wondering where the water might go, or stare astonished as a
seemingly endless supply of water shot from taps after just one little turn. They also looked cool. Nasra had a white Afro and Habiba had bright-red hair, and I felt so juvenile with my long black
hair, which Hoyo had allowed to grow down to my bottom. Inspired by Nasra and Habiba, I took a pair of scissors to it, chopping it away until it reached my neck. I put the pile of hair at my feet
into the bin, and along with it some memories of my mother.
‘What have you done?’ Nasra asked me the following day. ‘We loved your hair!’
But I didn’t care; it would grow back and, anyway, I loved my new short bob.
We’d go out walking in the late afternoon, exploring the streets of London. Every time I’d see a dress covered in sequins in a shop window, I’d long for it, stopping to admire
it.
‘I wish it was mine,’ I’d say.
And the girls would tease me. ‘You’re addicted to sparkly things,’ they’d sigh.
There was a whole range of different women at the hostel, not just African girls like us, but English ones too. There was one older woman, who never told me her name, but she must have been in
her seventies. She was beautifully dressed and wore colourful beaded necklaces that rattled on her chest every time she moved. She made jewellery and I used some of my income support to buy her
beads. I wanted to try everything this country had to offer – short hair, jeans, beads, the lot. Many days I’d waste just trying on clothes in shops, twirling in the changing-room
mirror in tops that showed my midriff. I felt like anything was possible, and it was. First, though, I had to free myself physically.
I’d been in the hostel for two weeks when I asked to see a doctor. The lady who ran the hostel booked an appointment for me at a GP’s surgery around the corner, and I went along on
my own, determined not to tell the other women what I wanted; instinct told me not to share my secret. We had never discussed
gudnin
in Somalia, and I knew it would be no different in
London.
I walked into the surgery, and up to the receptionist’s desk. As I waited in the queue I looked around the room, at the white walls covered with colourful posters, containing words that
meant nothing to me. On hard chairs sat patients waiting with serious faces, some flicking through old magazines, mothers chastising their children for not keeping still, all of them so aware of
the process, so familiar with their surroundings, the sterile smell, the hush that hung heavy in the room. When my name was called, I took a deep breath and went through the door the receptionist
gestured towards. The doctor was sitting behind her desk wearing a warm smile, red jacket and black trousers. Her lips were pink and her eyes were blue, and she had painted blue mascara on to her
lashes, which mesmerised me, momentarily distracting me from my purpose.
‘How can I help?’ she said.
‘No English,’ I told her, swiping my hands outwards.
So in turn she touched her head, her arms, her stomach. ‘Does it hurt here? Here? Here?’ she asked.
I shook my head, then tentatively pointed down between my legs. She nodded, understanding. She stood up from behind her desk and led me over to a couch, motioning for me to take off my trousers
and get up on to the bed.
I did as she said, noticing, as I unzipped my jeans, that my hands were shaking; my heart was pounding against my chest so loudly that I was sure she would hear it. I climbed on to the couch and
lay down, staring at the stucco tiles on the ceiling, trying to mentally bat away the images that flooded into my mind, because suddenly and quite unexpectedly I was six years old again, on my
back, naked from the waist down, exposed. One after the other the images came: the
Unlike me, they didn’t marvel at the fact there were flushing toilets in the hostel, standing and flushing them over and over, wondering where the water might go, or stare astonished as a
seemingly endless supply of water shot from taps after just one little turn. They also looked cool. Nasra had a white Afro and Habiba had bright-red hair, and I felt so juvenile with my long black
hair, which Hoyo had allowed to grow down to my bottom. Inspired by Nasra and Habiba, I took a pair of scissors to it, chopping it away until it reached my neck. I put the pile of hair at my feet
into the bin, and along with it some memories of my mother.
‘What have you done?’ Nasra asked me the following day. ‘We loved your hair!’
But I didn’t care; it would grow back and, anyway, I loved my new short bob.
We’d go out walking in the late afternoon, exploring the streets of London. Every time I’d see a dress covered in sequins in a shop window, I’d long for it, stopping to admire
it.
‘I wish it was mine,’ I’d say.
And the girls would tease me. ‘You’re addicted to sparkly things,’ they’d sigh.
There was a whole range of different women at the hostel, not just African girls like us, but English ones too. There was one older woman, who never told me her name, but she must have been in
her seventies. She was beautifully dressed and wore colourful beaded necklaces that rattled on her chest every time she moved. She made jewellery and I used some of my income support to buy her
beads. I wanted to try everything this country had to offer – short hair, jeans, beads, the lot. Many days I’d waste just trying on clothes in shops, twirling in the changing-room
mirror in tops that showed my midriff. I felt like anything was possible, and it was. First, though, I had to free myself physically.
I’d been in the hostel for two weeks when I asked to see a doctor. The lady who ran the hostel booked an appointment for me at a GP’s surgery around the corner, and I went along on
my own, determined not to tell the other women what I wanted; instinct told me not to share my secret. We had never discussed
gudnin
in Somalia, and I knew it would be no different in
London.
I walked into the surgery, and up to the receptionist’s desk. As I waited in the queue I looked around the room, at the white walls covered with colourful posters, containing words that
meant nothing to me. On hard chairs sat patients waiting with serious faces, some flicking through old magazines, mothers chastising their children for not keeping still, all of them so aware of
the process, so familiar with their surroundings, the sterile smell, the hush that hung heavy in the room. When my name was called, I took a deep breath and went through the door the receptionist
gestured towards. The doctor was sitting behind her desk wearing a warm smile, red jacket and black trousers. Her lips were pink and her eyes were blue, and she had painted blue mascara on to her
lashes, which mesmerised me, momentarily distracting me from my purpose.
‘How can I help?’ she said.
‘No English,’ I told her, swiping my hands outwards.
So in turn she touched her head, her arms, her stomach. ‘Does it hurt here? Here? Here?’ she asked.
I shook my head, then tentatively pointed down between my legs. She nodded, understanding. She stood up from behind her desk and led me over to a couch, motioning for me to take off my trousers
and get up on to the bed.
I did as she said, noticing, as I unzipped my jeans, that my hands were shaking; my heart was pounding against my chest so loudly that I was sure she would hear it. I climbed on to the couch and
lay down, staring at the stucco tiles on the ceiling, trying to mentally bat away the images that flooded into my mind, because suddenly and quite unexpectedly I was six years old again, on my
back, naked from the waist down, exposed. One after the other the images came: the
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