Iranian Headscarves

The problem in Iran is the headscarf.  It has to stay glued to your head from the moment you leave your hotel room (I had chambermaids scolding me if I was still putting it on walking to the elevator) until returning at the end of the day.  Somewhere in between holding up my long skirt and searching for the roll of toilet paper in my shoulder bag, the ends often came undone and threatened to fall into places I did not want them to go.  I imagine the local women found our Western attempts to observe (male-dictated) Iranian modesty amusing.  What else could smile-inducing eye contact in the large, American-styled highway rest stops mean?

It would be easy to regard the headscarf as a cultural barrier as great as squat toilets.   But in Iran, even this minimal level of acquiescence opens up the world of legendary Iranian hospitality and friendliness.  Strolling in a main city park in Tehran, young women would come up, giggling and smiling.  They would ask me where I was from, and then engage in wide-eyed conversation at the chance to converse with a human-looking American.  Why did I come to Iran?  Was it difficult?  Where was I going?  Would I see the all the great sights, such as Persepolis that made the Persian Empire the greatest the world has even seen?  Did I feel safe?  Yes, I did, including the evenings when Iranian parks fill with families picnicking, girl friends roller-skating, young men playing chess, and both sexes engaged in fierce volleyball matches.

Bathroom problem?  Who remembers when compared to all the other wonderful experiences of ancient Persia and modern Iran?  Just as long as the head scarf stays on.