Standing with Zach (Realistic Version) by Truther

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The conflict in the Middle East unleashed so many protests on campus. They were loud, unpleasant affairs with people shouting at each other and making outrageous claims. But, it was all rather impersonal and very unconnected to me until….

"What is it, Zach?" I asked my roommate whose face looked ashen.

He had stepped out of our dorm room on his way to class, but immediately come back in, slammed and locked the door. Zach seemed petrified.

"They’re coming after me," he finally blurted out. "I’m being targeted because I'm a Muslim."

I had never seen Zach so agitated. He was a nice, mild-mannered guy. A practicing Muslim, yes, but certainly no extremist.

I figured there was something in the hall and went to see what had unnerved him so.

Sprayed on our dorm door was this ominous warning, "Go back to where you came from, terrorist." A few crude symbols were painted, intended to intimidate.

"Oh, Zach! That’s awful. I’m going to report it to the campus police and the Dean of Students," I said, horrified by what I saw.

"Don’t expect much sympathy from that crowd. It seems as if college campuses are no place for Muslims anymore," he murmured.

It made me feel sad to see Zach so rattled. And, it also disturbed me that our centers of enlightenment, tolerance, inquiry, and learning were morphing into factories of hate.

Zach continued, "I have a test this morning, but I don’t feel like going out there…."

"Let me go with you, just to give you some moral support," I urged.

"And help fend off any bigots?" Zach asked, cracking a bit of a smile. "Sure, I’d appreciate that. I feel shaken, that’s all."

We walked together and things on campus seemed normal. I was glad to give him enough confidence to go ahead with the exam.

Throughout the next couple of weeks, I tried to support Zach in any way I could. It was obvious he appreciated the encouragement. We spent a lot of time together, and our friendship grew ever closer.

One thing that made me sad was that Zach had stopped wearing a kufi. He had always worn one in public, as part of his identity. He was not ashamed of his faith, but the hate message on our door shook him deeply.

I decided to engage with him on the matter.

"You stopped wearing your kufi, Zach," I noted as he was getting ready to go out one afternoon to get some supper.

"Can you blame me?" Zach retorted.

"I miss seeing you with your kufi each day. Kufis come in so many styles �" plain, embroidered, crocheted, even patterned. They’re such a distinctive part of your look," I noted lightheartedly.

"Then, why don’t you wear one?" Zach asked me. "Here, let me give you one of mine."

Zach rummaged through his drawer and pulled out a beautiful kufi with an intricate geometric pattern.

"Is it appropriate for a non-Muslim to wear a kufi?" I asked, a little apprehensive, admiring the embroidered piece of fabric.

"Of course, it will be a sign of solidarity and respect. Since you profess to be God-fearing, it should also be a sign of your submission to the Almighty," Zach explained.

"Will you put it on me?" I asked, warming to the idea.

As he placed it on my head, I felt a sense of unity and connection to Zach and his faith.

"It feels right," I said, looking at my reflection in the mirror.

"At least you have plenty of hair to keep it attached," Zach noted as he moved me to the mirror where I could see it.

"How do bald men keep their kufis on?" I asked.

"It’s a challenge," Zach laughed.

"Can I come with you to dinner?" I asked. "I’m feeling a bit hungry myself. And, please, wear a kufi. You shouldn’t feel bullied like that."

Zach rolled his eyes and then flashed a smile. "Why not? You’re sweet, Christopher. Thanks for supporting me so much over the past weeks. I was telling my imam about you. He said he wanted to meet you, that I should invite you to a Friday prayer."

Somehow, I felt strangely warmed and enveloped in a sort of mystical, divine embrace. I glanced in the mirror again and admired the kufi.

"Yes, please take me the next time you go to the mosque, Zach. I want to meet your imam," he said.

"You know, he’s at the Islamic Center tonight. We could eat there, and I could introduce you," Zach said.

"Your imam?" I asked. "I’d love that."

"He’ll be happy to see me wearing a kufi again," Zach said as he clipped a very bold black and white kufi with an intricate pattern in his short, black hair.

Zach’s hair was cut into a rather short taper.

"There! My kufi will serve as a sign of our faith and unity," he laughed.

"Unity is what we need," I added.

Zach let out a laugh. "No one would think you're Muslim, Christopher, I can assure you of that."

I shrugged and guessed it was because I was blond and had a distinctly Nordic look. It was only when we were talking with the imam that the real reason came out.

"So this is the young man, your hero roommate. A modern-day ‘righteous among the nations’!" the imam laughed. "Murtadd �"

"Good boy?" I asked, puzzled.

"Not boy. MURTADD! A good non-Muslim," Zach clarified.

"And, you’re wearing a kufi!" the imam exclaimed.

"I’m standing with Zach! I suppose everyone thinks I too am Muslim," I said.

"Not with hair like that," the imam noted.

"Blond?" I asked.

"Long!" he replied.

"But my hair is my identity," I stammered.

"Ah, ready for a theological debate! Now, that’s making me think you’ve got some good Islamic values way back in your DNA somewhere," the imam said with a twinkle.

Zach explained, "In our faith community, the general principal is that men look like men and women look like women. There are unwritten, but widely observed guidelines. It’s generally considered a shame for a man to have his hair long, like that of a woman."

My face blushed red. Zach just suggested I looked feminine!

"Oh, I see," I murmured, as I pawed at my shoulder-length tresses.

As we continued to chat, I looked around and noticed that almost all the Muslim men wore their hair cut short and appeared manly. These were modern-looking fellows — no flowing robes or long beards in the room, but plenty of colorful kufis paired with tailored jeans.

And then there was me, with my bouncy blond locks, dancing about my shoulders. I definitely did not fit into their standards of coiffure.

I had a fun evening at the Islamic Center and enjoyed the sense of community very much. The food was great too. Nothing beats a good biryani.

On our way out, the imam thanked me again for supporting Zach and for coming to the center.

"If you’re interested in learning more about Islam, or if you just want to chat, let me know," he offered, handing me his contact information.

It was like a dart had pierced my heart. It was exactly what I wanted!

I stumbled back to the dorm in a daze. Zach babbled on about a few things, but I wasn’t even listening.

In the morning, I asked Zach, "Where do you get your hair cut?"

"The Plaza Barber Shop. Why?" Zach asked.

"Well, yesterday, your comment about my hair, about it being feminine, made me feel, uh, um," I stammered.

"Oh, Christopher, I’m SO sorry! That is the last thing I intended. I was just trying to explain our customs…it’s not even that important," Zach replied.

"But no one else there had long hair like mine," I pointed out.

"I was only explaining the imam’s comment about length when you assumed it was the blond color that marked you as a non-Muslim," Zach noted.

"True," I conceded.

Zach stroked my long hair tenderly with his hand. "You have amazing hair, Christopher. Sometimes, I wish I could grow mine out like this."

"You can! The requirement to have short hair is not a strict rule in Islam, you know," I sassed.

"Oh, the instant scholar! Or did you attend an Islamic school?" Zach chuckled.

"Keep it short, Zach! I love your tidy look," I said admiring his shorn head.

"Then, let me take you to my barber," Zach laughed. "You’ve been doing everything for me lately. It’s time I do you a good turn. And that includes a decent haircut!"

"This morning?" I asked.

"Now!" Zach replied.

Just then, my phone pinged. It was a message from the imam!

"Let’s go. I want to get shorn before my meeting with the imam. I have a few questions for him," I said with excitement, seeing a text pop onto my screen.

"What?! Did you get a text from the imam?!" Zach demanded.

"I sent him a message last night when I couldn’t fall asleep," I confessed. "There is so much going through my mind."

"Maybe when we dispatch this mass of hair to the barber shop floor, you can think more clearly," Zach teased, batting at my tresses. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Totally! Fire up the clippers," I whooped.

Zach found a parking space near the door of the Park Plaza Barbershop.

My adrenaline was running high as we approached the door. Stepping inside was like being back in the late 1960s. The horrible fake-wood paneling was everywhere! And, there was dull gray linoleum floor with padded mats around the chairs to ease the barbers' aching feet. The empty big black chairs faced away from the mirrors.

"I'll be with you in a minute," the beefy barber with a foreign accent said, popping his head out from the back area of the shop. "Take a seat there, in the middle."

Zach sat on a hard chair in the waiting area.

I slipped into the barber chair that had a collection of cut hair around it. I felt uncomfortable, but excited, waiting for the barber. In the neon light, my blond locks blazed with vitality. The natural highlights were in their post-summer prime. I was anxious for the cutting to start! I wanted to be free of my girlish hair.

The barber shuffled out and reached for the cape. He tossed it and struggled to fasten it on the account of the long hair.

"I'm Muhammad. What’ll it be for you, today?" he asked in a grumpy tone.

"See that fellow over there?" I replied.

"Zach, yep. He’s a good guy," the barber replied.

"Just like his," I declared.

Muhammad picked up a pair of shears and primed them a bit.

"With pleasure," he said, as he snagged the flow in back with his comb and delivered a huge CHOP!

Then he seized another shank and whacked it off.

As he chopped away, Muhammad muttered about "girly hair" and how horrible it was.

"I will make you look like the man Allah made you to be," Muhammad declared as he swapped the shears for a set of electric clippers.

I bowed my head, almost as an act of reverence and submission.

Muhammad had a firm touch as he drove the clippers tight up the back. It felt good. I was happy the long hair was quickly becoming history. All I could think about was getting my hair cut very short and how I welcomed that. I watched mounds of my blond hair fall to the cape as the clippers cleared away the growth from the sides, although not all the way down to the scalp.

"How are you doing over there, friend?" Zach called out.

"Muhammad’s doing a great job with the haircut," I replied quickly.

"Are you going to leave him some hair, Muhammad?" Zach asked.

"Enough….although I’m not sure why he ever let it get so long," the barber muttered. "Look at the floor!"

"He was a lapsed lamb and now wants in the fold," Zach laughed.

"And the first step is to shear off the matted overgrowth," Muhammad replied.

The barber snagged the forelock and took it almost all off.

I blinked at the rapidity of the assault.

Muhammad paused. "Is this short enough?" he asked me.

Nothing on top was over an inch in length. The sides and back were tapered short and rather sparse.

"Yes, I believe it is," I replied.

"Then, I believe you are finished," the barber announced.

The amount of cut hair on the floor was staggering when I finally left the chair. My head felt light and carefree. I looked like a different person.

"Looking like a handsome, virile man," Zach commented, as we left the shop.

I told him I felt nervous about my appointment with the imam.

"What are you going to talk about?" Zach wanted to know.

"Hell, whatever. Life!" I replied.

"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked solicitously.

"No!" I snapped. "I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself."

"Sor-ry!" Zach answered back curtly.

Zach dropped me off at the mosque.

I knocked on the imam’s office door.

"Christopher! Come in. I’m so delighted you wanted to chat," the imam called out from inside his private study.

When I walked in, he whistled in amazement.

"What a transformation! Your long hair…." the imam exclaimed.

"I just left the barber shop. It’s all been dumped into a trashcan by now, I suppose," I said, feeling my tapered pate nervously.

"You look a thousand times better without all that long hair," the imam said, showing his total approval.

"Perhaps now people might mistake me for being Muslim if I wear a kufi?" I asked.

"Is that what you’ve come to discuss? A faith journey? Have a seat," the imam said. "Embracing Islam takes more than a trip to the barber, Christopher."

The remark felt like a mild rebuke. But his eyes were kind and his smile warm.

"If you had to sum up your faith in a nutshell. Scale it down to the bare essentials…what’s it all about?" I asked.

The imam looked at me thoughtfully. "Submission to the will of Allah. That’s what it’s about."

"I like that," I said, feeling a glow spreading through my body.

The imam opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a beautiful kufi. It was beige, portraying verses from the Quran in elegant calligraphy.

"I’d like you to have it, Christopher," the imam said. "Give it new life through its message of submission!"

I took the kufi in my hands. I felt nervous and swallowed hard.

"But what about the claims of Islamophobia and the suffering of Muslims?" I asked.

"It's a legitimate question," the imam replied. "I won't have a satisfactory answer. But remember, Islam teaches patience and perseverance in the face of adversity. It’s about maintaining faith and doing good, even in difficult times."

As I placed the kufi on my head, I knew my journey was heading in a beautiful direction.

From that day forward, Zach and I continued to support each other in our faith and our friendship. And as I walked through campus with my new kufi, I felt a sense of belonging and purpose that I had never experienced before. Our shared experiences had brought us closer together, and I knew that with each step, I was walking the path that Allah had laid out for me.

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