No, I Don't Like Your Hair

Before we came to Jordan seven years ago some people suggested I cut my hair. You know, to fit in better, so people in this conservative society wouldn't be turned off by my long locks. Anyway, I didn't cut it, and I've never had any problem. Sure, I get a few more stares than the average white guy here, but I did back at home too, especially from the occasional anxious store clerk who is certain I look like a shoplifter. I've never gotten the sense that people wouldn't talk to me or distrusted me here because I looked different. I have friends young and old, and with varying degrees of religiosity, and the strangers I meet every day are perfectly willing to talk to me. My long hair, though, does set me apart aesthetically from nearly everyone in Jordan. That is true. Because of that, I am every so often forced to answer questions about it, usually from a kid. Such an inquisition took place yesterday, while I was innocently waiting for my shawarma. My inquisitor was around twelve or thirteen years old, and he took a keen interest in how I looked while waiting for his shawarma too. The following is the English translation of our conversation.

Kid: Why is your hair like that?
Me: Why not?
Kid: Why is your hair like that?
Me: Why not? Why is your hair like that?
Pause, confusion.
Kid: Why is your hair like that?
Me: Why is your hair like that? It's too short.
Kid: What?
Me: It's too short.
Pause, again.
Kid: Why is your hair like that?
Me: Why? You don't like it?
Kid: No.
Me: What? Is it prohibited?
Kid: Yes.

I smiled wide, and laughed, and began to consider my next response. But, alas, his shawarma was ready, and he grabbed it and walked away, leaving me alone, with my forbidden hair.