The morality agent glances at me in the mirror of his motorcycle. Then he turns around and takes a good look. My heart skips a bit. I am in trouble. It is a sunny summer day in July 2017. The green leaves on the tall sycamore trees that dot the street are moving by a gentle breeze. I feel the forbidden warmth of the sun on my hair. It is around 1 pm. I am visiting Tehran. I am visiting my childhood friend of fifteen years who lives in Tehran. It is for her and a couple of other friends that I go back to Iran any more. I have cut ties with my homeland. With the motherland that is not a good mother to me. With a fatherland that is always angry at me. I am not a good daughter in his eyes. I don’t fit the definition it has of a “good daughter.” I drink alcohol and eat pork and have sex with my partner whom I am not married to. I don’t cover my hair and I dance and sing. He is angry with me and today his hands, his morality agents may get a chance to punish me. Since I left my friend’s apartment in northern Tehran to go visit another friend in the southern part, I have taken my scarf off. My hijab. God, if it exists, will hang me from my hair in hell after I die to punish me for doing so. But before that if this morality agent arrests me, I will be thrown in prison. Not covering one’s hair or being “bare-headed” is illegal for women in Iran.

The agent is 30 feet ahead of me and he is looking at me in the mirror of his motorcycle again. I am short. Five feet and three inches. I am wearing jeans and a t-shirt under a buttoned up black overall that reached just above my knees. My hair is short. Very short. Two inches long. I have put some gel on to make the front stand tall. I am wearing sunglasses to be a bit anonymous in a video I have been recording of my journey. The sunglasses stop him from seeing my eyes. He doesn’t know I have noticed him looking at me. I pretend I haven’t. I don’t turn my head towards him. I don’t cover my hair. I look straight to a side street and white lines of the crosswalk in front of me and keep walking.

Right now, it is not just about me walking bare-headed in public. Along the way, I have been recording a video of myself, of my defiance, to share on social media. To share my despise of being forced to cover my hair and share my joy of walking the streets without doing so.

The video is on my phone inside a small tote bag hanging from my shoulder. Inside the bag, beside my phone, is my American passport that I am carrying today to do some paperwork. If I am caught I will be labeled as an American spy who has taken money to corrupt Iranian women, not a girl tired of being forced to cover her hair for thirty years because of a stupid law based on a religion she doesn’t believe in.

“Keep walking.” my brain orders my feet. The street we are in is one way and he is ahead of me. He can’t just turn around to get to me. “Keep walking.” I am wearing dark blue sneakers with printed pink flamingos. He turns left to a two way side street in front of me. I have to cross the same street. My shoelaces are white. “Keep waking.” I step on the crosswalk. He has stopped 50 feet away. He is looking this way in his mirror. He is looking at me. He is looking for a gap in between the cars to turn around. “Keep walking”. His motorcycle is red. That’s what got my attention. My eyes reported “Hey, a red motorcycle,” and my brain went “Cool! It is a nice make too and high capacity. A 2000 cc engine. Only agents are allowed to ride those…Shit.”

“Keep walking.”

I step over a small gutter to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. It is a narrow sidewalk. Three more steps and I am out of his sight. Then my brain orders “Run.” My feet obey.

I am in a residential area. The buildings on the street are mostly four-five story apartments, with high break walls and metal doors that are all closed to me. There is a grocery store at the corner: too obvious. That will be the first place he looks. There are a few more shops close to the junction. I run to the last one. It is a real estate office and the window is covered with ads for different houses. This will do. I put my scarf over my head, take off the sunglasses and enter. The owner is talking with another man, a client looking for a place. I wait in line. My face is calm. My heart is pounding. I know I am fucked if I am arrested but fuck it. Fuck this law. Fuck this life of fear and silence.

The man leaves in a couple of minutes. The owner turns toward me. He is in his sixties. He has a thin nose, dark black eyes, and narrow lips. His ears are small. He has a short haircut. His hair is half gray. “What are you looking for, Miss?” he asks. I start mumbling about wanting a rental in the area. He is giving me prices. They don’t register in my brain but I have to keep talking. I can’t leave. How do I know when to leave? If I was religious this would be the time to pray. I am not. I keep asking questions. A few minutes later, I see a reflection of a red motorcycle passing the shop on the glass door. I am safe. Today. And one day we will walk the streets of Tehran without scarves.