Montreal Hijab Boutique
"She runs a hijab boutique in Montreal's Parc-Extension—a thick ebony Somali widow who makes modesty beautiful. When he comes looking for a gift, she wraps more than fabric. Some gifts are unwrapped in private."
Elegance Hijab is Montreal's hidden treasure.
In Parc-Extension, among the diversity, Deeqa has been selling modest fashion for sixteen years. Her hijabs are works of art.
I need a gift for my sister.
"What style does she prefer?" Deeqa displays her collection. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of fashion expertise. Ebony skin, perfectly draped hijab, the elegance she sells made personal.
"Something elegant but not showy."
"Mashallah—you know your sister." She pulls several options. "These are my favorites."
She helps me choose.
Explaining fabrics, colors, styles. Her knowledge is deep, her taste impeccable.
"You're incredible at this," I tell her.
"I've been doing it since I was fifteen." She wraps the hijab in tissue paper. "My mother taught me. Her mother taught her. Four generations of covering women beautifully."
"And your husband?"
"Dead. Eight years." She doesn't flinch. "He loved watching me dress. Said I made fabric dance."
"I can see why."
I come back for myself.
Asking about Muslim culture, about modesty, about things I've wondered but never asked.
"You're curious," she observes.
"I want to understand."
"Why?"
"Because understanding connects people." I meet her eyes. "And I want to be connected."
"To what?"
"To you."
"Xaaraan," she whispers.
We're in her stockroom after closing. Fabrics everywhere.
"What you're suggesting—it's forbidden."
"What am I suggesting?"
"That I remove what I've spent my life teaching women to wear." She touches her hijab. "That I show what I've kept hidden for fifty years."
"Only if you want to."
"That's the problem." Her voice cracks. "I want to. Eight years of alone. Eight years of draping others while staying covered myself."
"Show me."
She removes the hijab.
Gray hair, cropped short. A face I've only seen framed by fabric.
"No one has seen me like this since my husband."
"You're beautiful."
"I'm old and gray and—"
I kiss her.
I worship the hijab seller.
Among the fabrics she wraps around others. Her body is modest beauty revealed—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've covered everyone—"
"Tonight you're uncovered."
I lay her on piles of silk.
The finest fabrics in her shop. Her body is the most precious fabric of all.
I spread her thick thighs.
Discover what's been hidden.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eight years of modest isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I explore her until she reveals everything. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—wrap yourself in me—"
I strip. She watches with those modest eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Uncovered."
I push inside the hijab seller.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I drape pleasure over her.
Her massive body shakes among the silks. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—"
I release inside her.
We lie wrapped in her finest fabrics.
"Xaaraan," she whispers again.
"Human."
"Haa." She kisses me. "Beautifully human."
One Year Later
My sister loves her hijab.
And I love the woman who made it.
"Macaan," she moans, wrapped in nothing but moonlight. "My favorite customer."
The hijab seller who covers everyone.
The woman I uncover with love.
Modesty and passion intertwined.