I love God more than I love my hair

Wearing the hijab is like any other experience — it holds both beauty and struggle. I see it as more than a commandment.

(Estee Crawford/New Wave Zine)

I never thought wearing the hijab at the age of 12 would carry such complex emotions with it. I thought it would be as easy as wrapping a thin, layered scarf around my chunky box braids — guided only by the intention of wearing it for God. 

On some mornings, the hijab feels heavier than usual. It’s suffocating. The tightly wrapped fabric around my jawline — the sharp pins poking my chin — and my ears so closed off that sometimes everything sounds muffled. 

Some days, I wake up to get ready for class or work and forget that, before stepping out into the world, I have to put it on and cover up. Some days I don’t feel beautiful with it. Some days I wish I could leave it behind. 

When I walk to Eglinton Station and down to the platform, the breeze from the incoming TTC train lifts the edges of my steamed modal hijab. On those days, I wonder what it would feel like to let my hair down and feel that crisp air. I am sometimes asked, “Well then, why don’t you take it off?”

“Because I love God more than my hair,” I reply. 

To me, and many Muslim women around the world, the hijab signifies a devotion to God. In Islam, it means covering our hair, neck, and figure for modesty. What the media doesn’t understand is that the hijab is meant to protect our beauty. However, these are all secondary reasons behind what the hijab represents.,  The simple truth is that it’s one of the obligations we are meant to follow. 

The hijab is not just a piece of cloth on Muslim women’s heads, but an act to show our love, obedience and spiritual connection with Him. 

The intention behind the hijab isn’t the complicated part; it’s wearing the hijab that is hard. 

The platform of any subway station isn’t just a wind-blown moment for hijabi women. It’s a place where people are watching and being watched. On March 9, 2023, a Muslim woman wearing the hijab was threatened at knifepoint on the TTC. 

“You know what we do with people like you,” a man said to her. He pulled a large knife from his backpack, according to a report by the National Council of Canadian Muslims.

This incident reminded me of my conversation with Hidaya Abdullahi, a 21-year-old Harari hijabi woman, who tells me that being watched is something she is used to — and that it’s essential for her to remember why she’s wearing her hijab: for God. 

In an article by Furvah Shah for Cosmopolitan, titled Wearing the hijab is tougher than ever, but here’s why I still do it, she writes that wearing the hijab constantly reminds her of her faith, which motivates her to be the best version of herself. 

For me, it’s much more complex than that. 

Online, wearing the hijab is often seen as a perfect picture: the right lighting, the right angle, the right look. Scrolling through Instagram Reels, my eyes are glued to the screen, taking in the beauty of the hijabis on my feed. The “get ready with me,” “hijab tutorials,” and “everyday makeup” routines drive me insane. 

I wonder if it’s as easy as they make it look. But I guess I’ll never know, because I’m not a perfect public figure. 

“When I’m at home and look in the mirror [without my hijab on], I think, ‘Wow, it would look better off,’” Abdullahi told me. “But I never have those thoughts when I’m outside,” she said. 

What society forgets is that the hijab was never meant to be a performance. It’s worn as a form of modesty, a quiet reflection of devotion — not something to flaunt. 

I spoke with Aysha D Bekri, a 35-year-old Ethiopian Muslim woman from Calgary, who says that wearing the hijab identifies her as a Muslim, and she loves it. 

“I always wanted to be known as a Muslim person,” Bekri says to me with a huge smile. 

She told me her story: how she didn’t always wear the hijab. It was an on-and-off relationship, but she made her way back to it. “It’s almost like Cinderella finding her glass slipper again; it felt like a perfect fit,” she said with a smile. 

Many Muslim women quietly handle problems with commitment, display and confidence by covering up. From unpleasant whispers to silent judgments in public, the response affects our understanding of faith and femininity. 

It may be a surprise to hear, but the Western conception of women’s empowerment laid the groundwork to consider the hijab oppressive. This idea historically shaped the perception of Muslim women, transforming a religious ritual into one of servitude rather than choice. 

In a 2024 study, Dr. Liath Raoof observes that Muslim women in Western societies frequently face conflicting expectations: to be openly loyal while remaining invisible to stereotypes. She says that many women feel spiritual strength through wearing the hijab, but that strength is often misread as weakness in Western discourse.

To this day, I spend hours fixing my hair: flat-ironing, trimming and laying down my edges just right — feeling pretty. Then, moments later, I go out the door with it all covered up because of my obligation to God. It isn’t always effortless. Unfortunately, the media never shows this side. 

It hasn’t occurred to people that experiences with the hijab are like any other — and contain both beauty and suffering. 

In Feminista Journal, writer Maryam Qamarunissa delves into prevalent misconceptions surrounding the hijab and feminism. She challenges the idea that covering oneself is inherently oppressive: if a woman chooses to wear the hijab freely, her choice expresses agency. 

The idea that the hijab must be "empowering"  to be genuine mirrors a Western perspective on liberty that frequently overlooks the underlying spiritual connection. 

Sometimes I reminisce about those mornings at Eglinton Station; the way the wind blows my favourite hijab in my face and the subtle aroma of hair oil lingering beneath it. But then I consider the Muslim women who don’t fantasize about moments at the TTC — the women who don’t have good experiences there. And I get it. The world is not all sunshine and rainbows, but in those hard moments, faith shines the brightest. 

In those instances, I remember that my decision to wear the hijab is based on how God views me, not how others do. The world may not always understand it, and the hijab may be hard, tight and restricting at times, but that doesn’t diminish its true meaning. 

I still miss the feeling of freshly straightened hair against my neck — getting a variety of braids done by my mom and brushing out my curls to show the people around me. But I’ve discovered that beauty does not vanish when it’s covered. It just transforms into another beautiful thing.