The problem is that no one has noticed yet that you can sing. Or act. Or write. Or model. And now you are getting desperate. No worries. Put on some loose-fitting Gap linen pants, American Podiatric Association-approved Dansko sandals, sunglasses, and the embroidered shirt you bought in Damascus as a tourist. Learn the American's go-get-'em-tiger gait. Cultivate a lack of facility with keeping a headscarf in place. And then have a Pakistani drive you in a Toyota Corolla to Haripur, Pakistan!
On the way you will pass through brown fields dotted with clusters of thatched-roof huts. You will wend through an orange grove, though you won't remember to roll down the windows until the light, sweet scent has tinged the cool air blasting through the vents and the groves are far behind you. And then you will come to a stretch lined with barber shops, tailor's stalls, and food markets with caged chickens out front. On the street, you will see men, and only men, all of them wearing tan or robin's egg blue shalwar kamizes. When the driver pulls over for your Haripur debut, you will get out of the car in one deliberate, go-get-'em-tiger motion. And that's when the men will all come over to you, 30 or 40 of them and counting, forming in a circle, staring. At first you will think they are hostile -- you will feel strange, like an animal at the zoo, and you will wonder what, exactly, you were thinking when you agreed to this trip. But slowly you realize that when you smile, they will smile back. Then they will offer you bottled water, but will not accept payment. When you try to buy a honey dew melon from a cart, the vendor will insist on giving it to you because you are their guest. And because you are big in Haripur.
Your fans at the barber shop:
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