In a clandestine hair salon in Kabul: "If the Taliban discover us, we will all be considered guilty."

KabulWhen the Taliban ordered the closure of all women's hair salons and beauty parlors in Afghanistan two years ago, our lives were also locked behind those doors. I remember the last time I went to a hair salon in Kabul. The place smelled like it was on its last legs, like the day you realize something you've grown accustomed to is about to be erased from your life forever. My beautician had gathered up her tools. The small pots of creams and colors, the brushes, the combs... She had placed everything in an old box.

However, I asked her to do my eyebrows, and as soon as she started, I could tell she wasn't well. Her hands were trembling, and tears were streaming down the corners of her eyes, even though she tried to hide it with a half-smile. "They're closing the salon tomorrow. I barely managed to get them to let me work today," she finally confessed, her voice heavy with emotion. She was a widow with three children. Her husband had worked in the army and had died years before, and she was the one who supported the family. Without the hair salon, she didn't know what would become of her. "I don't know how I'll find bread for the children."

After the beauty salons closed, we women were forced to get ready in basements and rooms with no trace of the outside world, with windows covered by thick curtains and hair dryers on low speed so that even the neighbors wouldn't hear the noise.

My first visit

The first time I went to a hair salon like this, I had the feeling I'd entered a place where, if the Taliban discovered us, we'd all be considered guilty, not because of our makeup, our hairstyles, or our beauty, but simply because we were women gathered together.

The salon was in a house that, from the outside, looked like an ordinary home; it was no different from any other. I opened the door quietly and entered the inner courtyard, where a woman with a dark headscarf quickly locked the door.

It felt like I'd entered the home of a newlywed couple. Everything was so intimate and cozy that it didn't seem like a hair salon, but rather a nice place to live. In the large room, there was a bed next to the vanity, and in the corner, neatly arranged, were the items typically prepared for a bride's trousseau. The hairdresser had arranged everything so that, if the Taliban entered, the place would look like an ordinary house, not a clandestine beauty parlor.

However, behind this facade of tranquility, a constant fear permeated the space. At the entrance to the house was a small security camera, not to prevent theft, but to monitor the street. A screen on the bedside table displayed a clear view of the outside. Every woman who entered instinctively glanced at that monitor, as if we were all searching for signs of danger.

The beautician, tired and silent, checked the screen every few seconds. If the image of a man dressed in white appeared—the color of the uniform of the Taliban morality police—she lowered her voice and said, "If the Taliban come, everyone must go to the back room, and we'll pretend this is a family gathering." In the back room, there were a few cups of tea prepared and a box of cakes to make it seem like we were the guests.

As long as danger hadn't yet arrived, we all styled our hair, but with our veils ready in hand in case we suddenly needed to cover ourselves quickly. The hairdryers ran on low speed so as not to make too much noise, and the mirrors were positioned so our reflections couldn't be seen from outside.

Now, months after my first visit to one of these clandestine hair salons, I must confess that I enjoy going despite the risks. It's as if time stands still there. When I get my hair done or my makeup applied, I feel like I'm clinging to what my life was like before the Taliban returned to power. For a moment, I'm myself again, without prohibitions or restrictions.

In these small, hidden places, I can also laugh or talk with other women who have stories of resilience and hope. One explains that her daughters can't go to school, another laments that she's lost her job... Sharing our suffering, however, brings us relief, and being together above all gives us strength, despite the many difficulties.