As I returned to the Land of the Pure and Islamabad the Beautiful, things were pretty much the same as I had left them, the roads were all dug up, the traffic police was smiling even in the heat, making you wonder what they were high on and the chicks with sticks continued to stir things up.

I had decided to wear a kamiz shalwar on the way back in a curiosity to observe how I would be treated traveling from half way around the world. While there was not much difference in how I was looked at, talked to or the food I was served, except for the one time I was called to explain to an elephant sized sari clad woman from Agra why her protruding elbows were an aisle traffic hazard, I realized the benefits of traveling in your shalloos: The duppata can double as an extra pillow, blanket and towel. You can amuse the children of fellow passengers by pretending to be super girl while waiting at the terminal and in case the plane crashes and you land on a deserted island you can use it to call attention to yourself, and while you wait for help to arrive, have a picnic on your dupata spread. It also comes in handy to hide your face from people you dont want to bump into at Dubai Airport and lastly you are definitely safe, incase there are any Jamia Hafsa Hotline enthusiasts at the airport.

As I dealt with my jet lag with a daily dose of Panadol Night every Night, the week days passed with catching up on work and all the news I had missed: the rallies, the raids, the power outages and the lesbian marriages.

On Saturday morning as I pondered over my predictable Saturday morning ritual of self indulgence, the ATM stops, shampoo, shoe etc shopping and the DVD stock-up, my guilt over the vicious circle of consumerism was brought to a sudden interruption with the closed sign in front of my favorite parlor for renovations. Saturday mornings without an appointment are a situation you don’t want to be in and the only places which will accept you are the Chinese parlors. As I made my way in through the jingling door, 12 pairs of eyes followed my every movement as I searched for who was incharge there. Yes, low cost measures ensure that there is no welcome desk. A waiting time of half an hour, easily translates into an hr and a half here, so I tried to make myself comfortable between two heavy pairs of aunty hips and analyzed the situation around me.

There is a secret code of ethics governing the Beauty Parlor space: if you stare at anyone too long through the mirror you might be put in the spot by being asked how the new hair color or cut looks; the skin is holy ground, you never tell someone they are too dark, too pale, too patchy or too fake; ugliness does not exist, no mistake happens unless someone acknowledges it and the only reply to all questions is “fabulous!”, that is unless its your own turn on the hot seat. So the clients, comforted each other and worked as a big support group, while the attendants continued to work on them indifferently and chatting with each other in Chinese, usually seeming to make fun of all of us in their collective laughter.

When you live in a town as small and homely as Islamabad, small news have big consequences, I realized this as I found myself at McHorror trying to win a Shrek 3 character for my nephew from the Happy Meal Loot. Apparently my nephew was not the only 5 year old who had heard the news. We had tough competition. There were only a few decent mini dragons to be had, since no self respecting 5 year old wanted the ginger bread man with his squeaky voice. And thats it! Those were the only two characters available! Even I felt emotionally enraged and joined in the loud protests of Inequality, Injustice and Tyranny before I realized that it was all the McHorror food in my system speaking up. So while we are debating why our McHorror is not as well stocked or why our kids do not get the same representation and distribution to the Shrek 3 characters say as a kid in Montreal, how about adding salads to the McHorror menu for the adults who have to chaperone the kids for the weekly/daily visit to the playpen shrine.

As we made our way back home, the streets were busy with anti smoking campaign banners, the most interesting one being “are you dying for a smoke today?”, which was being fixed in place by a 17 year old looking volunteer juggling a cigarette in his free hand.

Yes Islamabad was still the same, familiar, predictable, with its interesting twists and turns (mostly dug now for expanding the roads) but I was so glad to be home.