In a beauty hiding salon: "If the Taliban find us, we will all be considered guilty"

KabulTwo years ago, when women’s beauty salons were closed, it felt as if a part of our lives had been locked away behind those doors. I remember the last time I went to a salon; the space smelled of endings, like the day you realize something you’ve grown used to is about to be erased from your life forever. My beautician had gathered all her tools. The small jars of creams and colors, the brushes,she placed them one by one into an old box. The sound of the little containers closing was like gentle taps on the heart.

I asked her to just shape my eyebrows. I could see she wasn’t well, not because she was tired, but because of the fear hidden in her eyes.She said, “Tomorrow they’ll seal the shop. I’ve barely managed to keep it open today”.

She was a widow with three children. Her husband had worked in the national army and had been killed years ago during a mission. With this small work, with just a few daily customers, she kept her family alive. When she stood in front of me to begin, her hands were trembling. The tweezers in her hand, tears trickled from the corner of her eyes. She tried to smile, but it was half a smile,just like her life, which had been left half-finished. She said, “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. I don’t know how I’ll find bread for the children”.

After the salons were closed, we women retreated to basements, rooms with no sign of the outside world, windows covered with thick curtains, and the sound of hair dryers kept low so that even the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

My first visit

The first time I entered one of these underground salons, I felt as if I had stepped into a place where, if discovered, we would all be considered guilty, not for our makeup, not for our beauty, but simply because we were women gathering together.

It was in a house that from the outside looked no different from others. I quietly opened the gate and stepped into the courtyard, where a woman in a dark scarf closed the door behind me.

I felt as though I was entering a newlywed’s home. Everything was so intimate and homey that I forgot this was a place for beauty, not life itself. In the large room, a bed stood next to the vanity table, and in the corner, items usually prepared for a bride’s trousseau were neatly arranged. It seemed the owner had to alter the space’s appearance so that, if the Taliban came, it would appear to be an ordinary house rather than a hidden salon.

Yet behind this calm facade, a constant fear ran through the space. A small security camera was mounted above the entrance, not to prevent theft, but to watch the street. The monitor on the table by the bed displayed a clear view outside. Every woman who entered instinctively glanced at that screen, as if we were all looking for signs of danger.

The beautician, tired and quiet, checked the camera every few minutes. If a man dressed in white, resembling the enforcement officers of the Taliban, appeared in the street, her voice would drop. She said to me, “If the enforcers come, everyone must go to the back room. We pretend it’s a family gathering”.

In that back room, a few cups of tea and a box of cake were always ready, so that if we had to, we could pretend to be guests. Women coming for beauty always kept their scarves properly worn, ready to cover themselves at a moment’s notice. The hair dryers were never loud, and mirrors were positioned so that nothing could be seen from outside.

Now, several months after my first visit to these underground salons, despite all the risks, being there slows down time for me. When I fix my hair or apply simple makeup, I feel as though I’ve held onto a part of my life from before. Here, even with the constant fear outside, I can be myself for a moment.

Sometimes I talk with the other women and realize that each of them carries a story of resistance and hope. One speaks of her daughters who cannot go to school, another talks about her home, her family, and the pressures of daily life. Even if our words are few and quiet, simply being together gives us strength.

These places, though small and hidden, remind us that we are still capable of simple choices, like caring for ourselves, moments when we can laugh, share our pains, and show that even in the hardest circumstances, women find ways to continue.