Is it just me, or do the girls of Defence and Clifton all look the same?
Sigh.Yeah I check out girls.
And guess what? So does every other woman on the planet. We have this deep-seated need to compare ourselves with every female in the room, and then ask whoever is standing next to us whether he/she thinks we’re prettier/hotter/thinner than that pretty/hot/thin girl in the corner. And if the witch is exponentially prettier/hotter/thinner than us, we clam up, feel miserable about ourselves and proceed to make the night hell for our friends or partner. Allah made us insecure. Like He made men gullible. It’s His fault, not ours.
I never understood us, really. Us women. We could be brilliant, witty, original, fun and capable yet we’d still like to be complimented on our beauty. I melt faster on a zabardasti ka “you’re cute” than I do on a sincere “Jeez Hira, you’re so smart!”
Jeez Hira, you’re so shallow.
Khaer, not the point of this post.
Actual point: Is it just me, or do the girls of Defence and Clifton all look the same?
Same straightened hair, kajal lined eyes, the same kind of clothes and accent, and even the same frick’n complexion…It’s like a horror movie sometimes.
My mother and I were at Aashyana recently; and I felt extremely North Nazimabadi. Firstly, a hijaab sort of pushes you back into the good ol 20th Century, and secondly, I don’t believe in dressing up to go shopping. Dumb move on my part. Next time I’ll remember to do so.
Anyway I’m wandering around the place, trying to find a non-polka dotted print considering they’re all over the place aaj kal, and see this girl walking around talking on her cell phone. I turn the corner and there she is again- only the print of her kameez has changed. I look back- and it’s a different girl! But they both look like twins…no triplets because that girl in the khaddi cloth store looks like the first girl too! And then I gradually notice that every frickn woman, regardless of her age, is a clone of that first girl.
It was the Stepford wives in Karachi, I tell you.
They talk the same, walk the same, smile in the ‘one-second-it’s-there,now-it’s-gone’ way and call their children “janu’ in the tone the Queen Mother would use. Their bangs will always be on the right side of their forehead, hands will never be un-manicured, and their kohl-rimmed eyes will never stop looking bored…
It must take practice to be them.
I am infinitely, super-hyper-ubertastically jealous.