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Leah V shows you how to wrap a quick turban in 60 seconds!
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10 Questions with Leah V and RV is a good time. We whipped up ten questions at the kitchen table and dumped them in a bowl. It gets real shady. You don't want to miss it.
Watch RV's version on his channel: https://youtu.be/uemgCgI9koA
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Photo: MJ Chapman Photography (UK)
I don’t like to be the bearer of burden. And, I’ll probably receive hella hate for writing this, but I’m about to be a young-looking 30 and as I age, I’m figuring out that I have very little fucks to give.
I’m 100% sure that this happens in every religion and culture, since the beginning of time, but because I’m Muslim, I’m going to focus on Muslim men.
Islam is a fair and peaceful religion, way of life. It lays out women’s rights; the ability to own businesses, seek divorce, and attain quality education. It clearly speaks against oppression. To even be a Muslim and oppress is an oxymoron, but time and time again we see these acts in our communities and abroad. It isn’t the religion, people! It’s the individuals obsessed with greed. It’s culture. And, it’s just plain not caring about what the religion says and using it as a form of control. From what I’ve seen mostly of the control and policing of our girls and women. Yeah, kinda like how Europeans used Christianity on African slaves or cults use ‘belief’ to control their followers.
With that said, let’s talk about the ‘boys will be boys’ mentality that I’ve seen in several Islamic communities.
One of my friends had a brother who wasn’t forced to cook dinner for the family like his sisters were. He did have dishwashing duties, but would often neglect them to hang with his friends. His sister and I were chillin’ one day and her mother called her. My friend told me that she had to go. When I asked why, she said because her mom wanted her to wash dishes.
Another unequal rule that was enforced was girls staying out past Mahgrib. Every Muslim boy could be found playing basketball, walking to the store, or just hanging at a friend’s house while the girls were forbidden to leave the confinements of their home. When asked why, the responses ranged from it was ‘too dangerous’ for the girls or plainly, because he was a boy, he could run the streets, and you can’t so just deal with it until you get married.
I’ve had friends that brothers were allowed to receive phone calls from girls, have porn under their mattresses, and even date. If a Muslim girl even looked at a boy, it was over for her. She’d be banished to the prison that was her home. For eternity.
Infidelity, adultery is a biggie. Muslims love to skate over that one. Especially if you have a penis. You get a ‘get out of jail’ card immediately. You get 99 excuses plus one. Basically, you didn’t even do it, even if they got you on tape. I’ve heard these responses in regards to Muslim men cheating. “Well, maybe he cheated because she wasn’t satisfying him.” “He only cheated once. What’s the big deal?” “He can have up to four wives anyway?” “You want to divorce him just because he cheated?”
If a Muslim woman cheated, the Day of Judgement would have truly arrived. The woman would literally be pulled out of her home, beaten in the streets, tongue whipped on Facebook, scolded by all and every family member, even cousins she’s never met before, ‘whore’ stamped on her forehead, then divorced and tossed into a deep, dark pit with a hungry lion inside.
And, don’t get me started on old, crusty Muslim men or Muslim fucbois requesting virgins…
I was in college when I started partying. I ripped my hijab off and put on a little black dress. Inside the club, my friends and I noticed a few Muslim guys we knew from the local mosque with drinks in their hands. I wanted to duck and dodge, but my friends told me that they’d already seen us. I rolled my eyes and followed.
They gave us salaams.
“Why are you guys here?” one of them asked.
I put my hand on my hip. “The same reason you guys are.”
He scoffed. “No hijab?”
“Not tonight.” I grinned.
“Y’all better not be drinking.”
I pointed to his glass. “Like you?”
Of course, he went back and told the whole community about our indecencies. So, we were deemed ‘those kind of girls’. They warned the good and holy Muslimahs not to speak or hang around us. But, the Muslim guys totally soared past the important portion of the discussion: we were all Muslim and none of us should have been in the club with drinks in hand and hijabs left in the backseat of cars. But no one, not one person pointed that out that fact as they hyped the story of us being bad Muslims.
Can we please stop this? Stop enabling these boys. You’re creating arrogant, Muslim fucbois who feel entitled to bigotry and sexism. Stop telling them that it’s okay to treat their women as if they are their mothers, that it’s okay to drink liquor but not eat pork, that it’s okay to marry a virgin when you smashed half the team. Stop making Islam look, appear to be one-sided. Stop using Islam to validate your foolishness. That is not ISLAM!
As a Muslim girl, I feel like you have to be everything to everyone at all moments of time. How tiring is that? What kind of life is that to live? You have to be pure to Muslim men, nonthreatening to white people, become Mufti Menk at the mosque. We all can’t be Mufti Menk.
I know that I’m not the only one whose experienced these ‘boys will be boys’ moments in the Muslim community.
I want to hear your stories. Put them in the comments below if you’re tired of the bull!
xoxo,
Photo: Moon Reflections Photography
As a fashion influencer, I get this question all the time. Especially from straight size individuals. Do you wish you weren’t fat? I know that a lot more people want to ask, it’s on the tip of their tongues, but because they don’t want to offend me they just keep it buried with all the other questions.
“Let’s say in a perfect world you could choose your body. No strings attached. Would you still choose to be fat?” a close friend asked.
The topic was on fat activism and body positivity.
Each time, I pause and think about the pros and cons. Because the westernized part of my mind goes straight to ‘thin is better’ or ‘thin is beauty’ without even hearing any other options. Our minds have been conditioned to immediately associate beauty with fair skin, slim noses, and flat tummies. Thick hair, full lips, long legs. But as I dig further into my own ideologies of the true meaning of beauty through my lens is when the answer starts to reveal itself.
It’d be amaaaazing to walk into a store and they have all of your sizes available in the front and not buried away in the back near the restrooms. It’d be amazing to have more than two or three racks of shapeless clothing (H&M…) to choose from. It’d be cool when you date a guy that he wouldn’t assume that you’re easy with low self-esteem because you have stomach rolls and that clearly no other man wants you because you’re fat and he’s doing you a favor. And we can also assume that it’d be cool not to be asked how many months pregnant you are when you’re not pregnant at all. Or to be trolled on the internet because you’re promoting obesity even though you go to the gym five days a week. Or not be looked at with disgust when you’re clearly nourishing your body with food at a local restaurant.
But, with all that said, I wouldn’t change being fat. Why? Unfortunately, as humans, and especially as girls and women, we always want what’s in. What’s trendy. Our bodies have become trends, objects. The body that was popular in the 70’s is totally different than the body that’s ‘in’ now. So, are we going to alter our bodies every decade to fit the mold of this ‘new’ beauty standard? Or are we going to embrace the curves (or lack of) that we’re working with now?
The true goal is to be healthy and fat or healthy and thin. Not to lose (or gain) weight so the scale can flicker to an agreeable number for other’s comfort. That’s my motto. And my life has been so much more fulfilling because of it.
Plus, the upside to being fat is that I don’t shop at the same stores that my thinner friends go to so that means no embarrassing twinning moments. I’m forced to be creative with my ensembles because my clothing options are so much more limited. Can you say, slayage? When I fall down the stairs, my butt cushion saves the bones from breaking. If I lose or gain five pounds, you won’t notice it. And, of course, I’m a pretty good cuddler.
*Winks at the guys*
xoxo
Photo: Muslims for American Progress
Although, I’m not political, recent events have had some of my close friends and I in a tiff. Before the whole Trump fiasco, women’s rights have always been under attack and governed by individuals who have never been cat-called to the point of annoyance, followed around in a club because they wouldn’t provide them digits, never had cramps that twisted their insides so badly that they basically died, or had a full-on human being claw its way out of their va jay jay.
Men making certain decisions for women is like my black, Muslim ass applying for the pope’s position in the Vatican.
It ain’t gonna work.
Now, if I were a rich and powerful douchebag with no decency, I could apply, get the job, and slowly but surely begin to fuck stuff up. But then as a human being, why would I want to create life issues for another sect of people?
It’s a man’s world. *Ahem* Sorry. It’s a white man’s world. Nope. A rich white man who probably is straight and Christian’s world. I don’t know about you, but I definitely don’t want someone like that making decisions about my reproductive health.
We are in dire need of a more diverse panel. Sorry not sorry.
And this isn’t a bash white people post. This is a bash-all-men-and-women-who-support-unequal-systems-put-in-place-by-the-powers-that-be post.
Feminism. The word most men cringe when they hear. I’ve gotten soooo much bullshit for saying I’m a feminist, especially because I’m Muslim. That makes it three times worst.
I was on a date with this African guy. Topic: dynamics between men and women. I like a good debate once in a while.
“You sound like a feminist,” he said.
“I am a feminist,” I replied.
His brows raised. But he hadn’t said anything else.
After a few seconds of silence. I countered, “I’m a humanist.”
He offered a sigh of relief. “That’s a better answer.”
WTF. Needless to say, he got dumped.
I was chatting with this white non-Muslim guy. “That’s great that you’re Muslim and a feminist. It’s just so sad how they oppress their women.”
After I schooled him about how ‘men’ in general oppress women, he got dropped like a hot sack of shit.
The last straw was another guy who said, “I mean, I get feminism, but they just hate men and they take stuff too far, ya know?”
No, I don’t know. BYEEEEEE!
Not only do non-Muslims have stigmas attached to feminism but Muslims do as well. Bad. I’ve heard Muslim men and women say that feminism isn’t Islamic. Pump the breaks. Equality isn’t Islam? Oppression isn’t spoken about as something that is wrong in Islam?
Feminism doesn’t mean hatred of men. Feminism isn’t just for lesbians. Feminism doesn’t only equate to showing your tits, growing your underarm hair, or being white. Of course, there are extreme feminists out there who may or may not fit those above stereotypes, but to each its own. You can be Muslim and feminist. I am. And I know others who are, too. And it doesn’t compromise my Islam, it actually makes it stronger.
Being a feminist means that you want the right to be who you want to be, whether that’s Muslim or atheist or Jew. It means the right to make equal pay as a man or a white woman, to have a say-so over what happens to your body, whether that’s abortion or having multiple children. It’s not about being right or wrong. Or good or evil. We have a God given right to make decisions for ourselves. That’s not too much to ask.
Photo: Flossy's Suitcase (Detroit, MI)
New year, new me? Maybe. Maybe not. I can dig the saying, to an extent. Some people want to do better, be a different person, emerge from a butterfly cocoon at midnight, but a date on a calendar isn’t going to propel you into greatness. It can be a push in the right direction, though.
Trust me, I get it. 2016 has been a year of revelation. And I use the word, revelation, because I keep seeing all these posts about how much 2016 sucked. I don’t know how to feel about that. I mean, did it have sucky moments? Yeah. Which year didn’t? But with those suck-ass moments, truths were revealed. We got to see what we were really made of when these calamities struck. Ain’t that worth something? To see how that arrow flew right at you and how you soared over that bitch. The arrow might’ve hit your mom in the arm, but hey, you can’t have it all.
2016. The year of revelation. For me, personally, I had no idea, clue, whatever that the year would be the way it was.
I remember at the end of 2015, I had a plan for the 2016 takeover. The plan was to grind with my blogging. Turn it into a business. To work on my book and get it in the best shape possible so that I could land an agent and get it published. Finally start my career. To have better opportunities for my husband and I. I was 28, and at 30, I told him I was kinda, sorta ready to be a mother. And as long as he helped me with the little rug rat, then I’d do it. Finally. Although, I never wanted kids, I was going to do it for him. He’d waited this long. He deserved it.
Life had another plan…
I relaunched my blog and that took about two months, but I was happy with the results. With the rebranding, I was going to be more real, more lifestyle. Less blogger-y. People started to dig the new layout, and I started getting a lot of publicity. The money was going to start rolling in so the financial stress would be alleviated from him. Unfortunately, no money came. I was working for free. Started working for Muslimgirl and got some more publicity. As I blew up in my creative field, attention-wise, my relationship went downhill. I found out he was dating some girl from his job. That killed me. But I kept it between family and close friends. I still blogged. Keeping up a façade of okay-ness. We got therapy. I forgave him. New beginnings, right? Wrong.
During this time of discovery, I asked myself a question. And, it really just came out of nowhere. Would you choose your career over your relationship? I was never able to answer the question because I could do it all, I could have it all.
When he’d say weird things about my accomplishments and how I wasn’t enough, the question always came up. Still, I never answered it. I was in denial.
More shit hit the fan with his infidelity. The blaming. The yelling. The resentment.
Still, I stayed. Trying to salvage the broken pieces.
During our divorce, I went through a lot of mental abuse. He said some really nasty things to me. I threw myself more into blogging, modeling, and other creative projects. I hired an editor to help me with my indie novel. I didn’t process the divorce thoroughly. Didn’t have time to. And that was ok with me.
I had no idea that in the beginning of 2016, that I’d be single by the end of the year. That I’d have to fend for myself. That I’d lose my mother to mental illness. That I’d lose friends to jealousy. But even with those revelations, I had gains that were equally amazing. I also had no idea that I’d become stronger by going to the gym regularly, that I’d be a staff writer, that I’d have dozens of features, or that I’d publish a book, or that I’d graduate from having five years of extensive therapy or that I’d be living on my own and be blessed to pay my own damn phone bill without him (because he said that I couldn’t).
It was revealed to me this year that I was much stronger than I ever thought I was. Because failing at an nine-year marriage made me feel so weak. So low. I questioned myself at every turn. Why this and why that? If you had only done such and such then you wouldn’t be undesirable, single, divorced. So, no, I don’t agree with anyone that 2016 was shit. It was THE SHIT! Because we are still here, still standing and living. Still able to grow, be hurt, and bounce back.
Because I’m corny, I have a few things that I want to leave with you for the new year. And a few tips to make sure it kinda goes smoothly. Note: I’m also going to practice what I preach as well.
Drop the Duds:
Stop allowing people to enter and take space in your life that have no substance or value. I see this waaaaaaay too much, especially with girls. Got a fuck boy that’s been hanging on by the pinky cuticle? Drop him. Got a frenemy who always got some smack to talk when you’ve “blessed up”? Drop her. Got an evil cat that scratches and hisses at you even though you feed it premium cat food? Drop it off at the Humane Society. Just kidding. Or am I?
The point is, we don’t want to make people angry or uncomfortable. We don’t want to burn bridges. Right? Fuck those bridges. They have no problem with draining your energy, making you feel low, creating issues for you. So, if the bad outweighs the good then you may have to drop em. Sorry. You are the weakest link. Buh bye.
Stop Lying to Yourself… And Others
Are you the Facebook friend who boasts about who they are cutting off in 2017? The one who says they are going to hit the gym but then falls off once spring hits? Stop lying. Little secret here, everyone knows your full of it so just don’t. If you have no intention of doing something for yourself or others keep your mouth shut. Be truthful. You know your capabilities for the most part. If your goal is to save money, then you actually have to have a plan and implement it. Out of each check, I’m going to save 50 bucks. Boom! I call this the plan and do method. Too many people talk but don’t back it up. Write it down. Consult with others about how you should go about your goal. Research. Do it. If it fails, go through all the steps again and tweak where necessary.
Get the ‘F’ Out of Your Comfort Zone
Growth is necessary, and it’s uncomfortable. You can try to avoid if you want, but you will always be thrown a curveball. Facts. So, why not semi-prepare yourself. The more fluid you are the less force the hit will have.
For example, I hated going to events by myself because I didn’t like being the awkward girl standing alone watching other people mingle. What if I said something stupid? What if I got rejected? I had to ask myself: what’s the point of going to events anyway? Well, I want to connect with others and build my brand. If no one knows about you then how will you grow your brand? Know what I did? I forced myself to go to events. Alone. Although very painful and awkward, I set a goal. Talk to five people and then you can leave. Once, I got to talking and figuring out that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it got easier each time.
In conclusion, what I want for all of you (the fantastic readers) is the feeling of rejuvenation for the new year. You don’t have to make a complete 180, but start thinking about it. Think about some goals you didn’t get to start or finish last year. Think about the relationships you keep and how that affects you: good or bad. Think about leaping into some shit that’s super cool, that you never thought of doing before. We don’t know when our last day is up. So, let’s go into 2017 making the most of our 364 days.
xoxo
Photo: Remy Roman Photography
When I was small, I was very watchful. Thoughtful. I’d watch Mom do everything. I wanted to know how she did it, how long it took her, her mannerisms. A little black sponge, I was. For the most part, I got it. But I never understood why Mom was extra nice, extra perky, and sounded differently when she talked to white folks. It all clicked one day when we were at the doctor’s office, that like her, one day I’d become a black woman with many faces, too.
I was around eight years old. It was hard for me to climb up on the clinic’s bed because my legs were so short. Mom pulled over a step stool and up I went. I sat on the rough white disposable barrier, kicking my scuffed gym shoes from Pay-Less at the edge. Back and forth. Quiet as usual as Mom pulled out her planner and jotted down notes.
Now, mind you, I was renamed Amerra (Islamic meaning is princess) when Mom converted to Islam. So, that’s the name I knew. None other.
The doctor knocked. A white male wore an off-white lab coat and had a manila folder in hand. He shifted through the papers, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Leah?”
I froze. Who was this Leah? My name was Amerra. Mom probably noticed the baffled look on my face, so she quickly said in the most white-black voice she could muster, “Yes. This is Leah.”
My name was Leah, too!?! I had two names. Not possible.
After some snooping, I saw that the name Leah Vernon was on my social security card and on my birth certificate. And that Amerra Jaahan was a Muslim name that she’d given me when we converted. I then found out that Mom didn’t name me Leah at all, but my grandmother had when I was born because Mom didn’t want any more children after my older sister and that I was to be given up for adoption… Ultimately, I wasn’t, but that’s a completely different story.
I never asked Mom why she didn’t tell the white doctor my Muslim name. Or why she put on her ‘professional’ voice when she answered the phone versus talking to us or her black, Muslim friends.
I already knew what most little black girls figured out eventually.
That as a black woman, we must wear many faces. And control what we tell others about our true selves for protection. We are not allowed to be our true selves. Because then we become stereotypes. We are called aggressive. We are called angry. Bitter. Rough. Loud. Too woke.
I was out with a girlfriend for brunch, which is what prompted this essay. She told me that her good friend, who happened to be white, said, “why can’t you, as a black woman, be your true self. I mean, I’d accept you in your truest form.”
My friend and I burst out laughing as she recanted the story. That’s how ridiculous the white girl sounded. We both blamed white superiority/privilege to the comment she made.
No, hunny, YOU, as a white woman CAN be a white woman. A black woman, cannot be true to herself because when she does, she makes everyone around her uncomfortable. She makes the black man uncomfortable with her tirades of being treated with respect. She makes the white man uncomfortable because when she stands up for her rights she is seen as aggressive, unattractive. She makes the white woman uncomfortable because when we say that ‘All’ women ain’t the same here in America we are seen as combative. I can go on and on…
The sad part is that I have fallen into this hole, this ongoing system of changing my genuine self to ‘fit’ in with uppity white people. To fit in with ghetto black people. To fit in with extreme Muslims. My family. My ex. Expectations set and looped in a strange time zone.
I’ve worn so many faces. And it has become so normal, so ingrained that I don’t even notice that I’m doing it. It just turns on like a light switch. But sometimes, when I catch it, I am disgusted. This is not you, I say to myself.
But what do you do? What do you do when it’s become a part of your everyday routine to be someone else for the sake of others comfort?
My friend and I ended the conversation with no resolution to wearing faces that weren’t ours. Our mothers did it. Our grandmothers did it. Hell, we’ve been doing it for hundreds of years. And they survived. We can survive, too. But at what cost?
We may not have all the answers. Or be the most perfect. Or most feminine. But no one can deny that we are Perseverant. Endurable. Strong. We both agreed that black women are the strongest of all women. I know that I’ll get flack for pointing out that fact, but you have no idea unless you’ve walked in my shoes. My black mother’s shoes. Or my black grandmother’s shoes. With that innate strength, we get beat down the most for it. We are the lowest on the totem pole. We get it from all sides. We are taken and objectified. We are told we are useless by our own men. We are thought less of by other cultures. We are picked apart and left to dry in the sun.
But still, we have this unending strength and beauty against all the odds.
Frankly, I wouldn’t change being a black, Muslim woman for anything.
Makeup: Madinah Muhammad
I’ve had a few interviews for different feminist and style blogs recently, and the question that I’m most asked is what it was like for me growing up, before Leah V. was Leah V.
I grew up in the 90’s and early 2000’s, where nothing on my body was considered beautiful or desired. To add to that, I was Muslim and Black. And very much so fat. Triple whammy? So confidence was at an all-time low for the most part.
In my family, my mother was a pretty snazzy dresser and so was my grandmother. Even though they were large women, they still pulled out their sequins blazers, costume jewelry, and furs. My grandmother was into makeup as well. Bright red lips and blue eyeshadow was a must for any special occasion.
That’s when I fell in love, playing in her expensive lippies and shadows. I secretly painted my face, knowing my mother wouldn’t approve, and would make me wipe it off immediately.
Makeup wasn’t in like that for young girls when I was growing up. No overly-contoured Kim K. looks. The most we did was a heavy coating of cheap lip gloss from the beauty supply store and some mascara. Anything else was considered ‘clown face’.
I was a weird, thoughtful, and creative child. I watched a lot of movies, read a lot of books, and immersed myself into rock/pop music. Through these outlets, I began to internalize all the characters that I admired. They were sassy. They were strong. They didn’t take no shit! They were modern and stylish and outrageous. They were different just like me. And I imagined being anything I wanted.
And then it clicked… I was going to wear glitter on my eyelids, smear black lipstick on my lips, and place tiaras on top of my hijab.
Why? Because I was expressing myself and it made me happy.
Others didn’t feel the same way.
“Take that dark lipstick off your face,” Mom told me.
“Why black polish? Why not red?” Another asked.
“Why wear makeup, you already have such pretty skin,” someone commented.
“You look like a clown,” a family member said.
*Hella sighs*
I was obsessed with the Spice Girls, so I bought several pairs of those chunky flip flops. I was into Gwen Stefani from No Doubt and started wearing black nail polish and fingerless lace gloves. Then I went through the goth phase. Everything was pitch black.
I got made fun of for dressing crazy, wearing makeup, being outspoken, being fat, having big feet, pointy teeth, wearing colorful hijabs, covering my body… Blah, blah.
The funny thing about it, I never allowed other people’s criticisms to stop me from dressing the way I wanted or affected how I carried myself. Because it was my body and I loved the expression that makeup and clothes could prompt. I wasn’t the same as the other girls, and that was fine with me.
It’s ironic, because now, I’m the trendsetter and style blogger. People ask my fat, Black Muslim self where do I get my clothes from. They ask me for fashion advice.
Although, it’s a sad thought to think what would’ve happened if I listened to those friends who made fun of my appearance and ensembles.
I wouldn’t be Leah V. I’d be some cardboard cutout. Exactly the same as the rest. Just falling in that straight and narrow line of lameness…
Beyonce said it best: “Tell him boy, bye!”
Keep being your crazy, odd dressing, thin or plump self. Don’t let others dictate how you should or shouldn’t dress. Or that you need or don’t need makeup. Tell them it’s YOUR BODY and you can do with it as you please!
xoxo
Leah V.
Photo: Reel Clever Films Tulle Skirt: Society +
Eid is my favorite Islamic Holiday. Why? You feel all triumphant because you cursed less during Ramadan, the people who worked your last nerve you managed to NOT go off on, and although you passed out a few times from hunger and thirst, you managed to fast for the entire month.
Congratulations.
Now, it’s time for the day everyone has been waiting for: Eid Fashions. We’ve waited all year long to see which sister is going to pull off that one-of-a-kind red carpet look at the Eid day events.
Here are a few tips on getting ready for the big day:
I’ve seen this happen so many times with my girlfriends. Their looking through the magazines and ohhing and ahhing at the pretty colors. Twenty-eight days have passed because of the indecision, and they rush out to get whatever’s left at the mall the day before. Don’t be that person. Get your major pieces sewed or purchased early. You’ll be much more satisfied and stress-free.
Photo: Lil Miss JB Style Tulle Skirt: Society +
Before, I became a fashion blogger and a wardrobe stylist, the worst thing in the world happened to me. Two years in a row, I was caught wearing the same outfit as someone else. Needless to say, my friends joked about this All. Day. Long. Groans.
Of course there’s no sure way to not have the same outfit on as someone else, but I challenge you to think outside of the box when choosing your Eid outfit. Fashion is fun and daring. Pick a color or a concept and build your outfit around that.
Tip: Shop away from the malls and stores nearest you. Drive out to new stores in other cities because they have a whole array of fresh items to choose from that maybe your neighbor hadn’t thought of.
#tbt 2009
I’ve partook in some hideous Eid outfits (Check out the green monstrosity above). Make sure that whatever you decide to wear you execute it properly and you are comfortable and confident in it.
I want to see you doused in accessories this Eid. Like peacock feather head pieces, crowns, large hooped earrings, midi rings, and statements neckpieces.
Since Eid will fall in the summer, these are a few styles I’d like to see you guys rock:
Colors: Yellows, Reds, Electric Blues, and Whites
Patterns: Aztec prints, stripes, Paisley, geometric shapes, polka dots, and dark tye-dies
Textures: Lace, linen, silk, chiffon, and velvet
Photo: Remy Roman Wrap Dress and Accessories: Peacock Room Detroit
I can't wait to see all of your Eid outfits in the next week! Make sure you hashtag #LeahVDaily
And don't forget to follow me on IG: Lvernon2000
Also, you check out the original post on Eid Glam at Muslimgirl.net