THE HIJAB JOURNEY: THE PINS AND THE OCASSIONAL PANIC

Twelve years ago today, I adorned the hijab for the first time. I chose the eve of Muharram 1435/2013—rightly or wrongly—to coincide with the spirit of Hijrah, of change and renewal. I could have waited until my birthday on the third of Muharram that particular year, but honestly, once I made the decision, I couldn’t wait. When you’ve been on the fence for that long, hesitation quickly turns into “let’s just do this”.

It wasn’t an overnight decision. I took my own sweet time, complete with dramatic sighs in front of mirrors and silent debates with myself. By the time I finally wore it, I already had a collection of scarves and shawls ready to go—as if I was preparing for a fashion show that I never signed up for. I’d watched just about every hijab tutorial on YouTube. They made it look effortless, like origami with chiffon. Me? I was mostly poking myself with pins and muttering words not suitable for polite company.

I would stand in front of the full-length mirror for hours, twisting, turning, adjusting… and then starting over. What I really wanted was a fuss-free hijab style—something that didn’t require restroom pit stops every hour just to check if I looked like I’d been caught in a small tornado.

Eventually, I settled on a simple style. I wasn’t aiming for “influencer level”; I just wanted to fulfil the purpose—to cover my hair and neck. I chose the good old Tudung Bawal, plain and two-toned. It was THE hijab of choice when it first became trendy, though most fashion-forward folks have since migrated to half-moon shawls, triple layers, chiffon clouds—you name it.

But honestly, Tudung Bawal and I—we get each other.

After I started wearing it, the greetings changed. Suddenly, it was “Assalamualaikum” instead of “Hi” or “Selamat pagi.” I got hugged, kissed, and ambushed by female colleagues whispering, “New look?”, “For good?”, or the classic, “Dah berhijrah?” I could practically hear the unspoken “finally!” in their tone.

Some people were curious but didn’t quite have the courage to ask. The men? Silent. Mostly just staring. Maybe they thought I was going through a phase or perhaps they just couldn’t compute the visual change. I don’t know.

One soon-to-be ex-colleague, a non-Muslim, asked me earnestly if I’d taken a nazar (vow) before wearing the hijab. I smiled politely. “No vows. No lightning bolt moment. I just wanted to do it,” I said, while she looked slightly disappointed that my reason wasn’t more dramatic.

When I changed my profile picture on Facebook, WhatsApp, and BBM (yes, BBM—don’t laugh, it was still a thing), the compliments rolled in. Only one person dared to ask if this was permanent. Then the congratulatory messages came flooding in. Alhamdulillah, the support was overwhelming.

No one knew exactly when I was going to start. Sure, I’d asked about scarf styles, innerwear, and my desk looked like a small-scale postal hub with courier packages arriving regularly. But the actual moment I decided to wear it? That was between me and God.

Naturally, I confided in my hijabi friends about my early struggles. One laughed and reassured me, “Don’t worry. We’ve all been there. Give it time. Soon, you’ll be flipping that shawl like a pro.”

And she was right. But those first few days? I was ridiculous. I visited the restroom far too many times just to check the alignment, like I was conducting hijab quality control. A colleague eventually told me to just keep a mirror at my desk or—modern problems require modern solutions—take selfies. Trust me, I have so many hijab selfies in my phone gallery, I could’ve made a flipbook out of them.

The first week, I avoided my usual spots—Gardens, BSC, BV I and II. It was just home-office-home, like I was in self-imposed hijab quarantine. Eventually, though, I ventured out.

Was everyone staring at me? Probably not. Did I feel like they were? Absolutely.

Is my hair showing?
Does this hijab match my outfit?
Are my clothes too tight?
Are my arms properly covered?
Am I actually fine but just being weird about it?

But I survived. Nobody fainted. No traffic jams were caused by my Tudung Bawal.

Now? I can get ready in under 10 minutes. One brooch under the chin, one at the back, done. The drama has reduced significantly, although I do occasionally declare wardrobe emergencies over mismatched scarves.

So yes, it’s business as usual. I’m still me—just with slightly more fabric and slightly fewer impulsive fringe trims.

Give me another 12 years, and maybe I’ll write another update. With luck, by then, my hijab pins will finally stop going missing.