In a dimly lit, concealed room beneath her home, Fariha* meticulously arranges the few beauty tools she has left. The space, no bigger than a closet, holds more than just her livelihood—it cradles her defiance. A brush, scissors, and a handful of makeup items—once ordinary tools, now symbolize her quiet rebellion against the Taliban’s harsh rules.
“Every day feels like walking a tightrope between fear and hope,” she confides, her hands trembling not from nerves, but from the constant dread that has come to define her existence. The air in her tiny sanctuary is thick with the scent of uncertainty, mingled with the faint aroma of makeup.
Each knock on the door could shatter her fragile peace. The Taliban’s morality police could be next. But with no other way to support her family, she feels compelled to continue her work.
“I know they could come for me at any moment,” Fariha whispers, her voice barely above a breath. “But I also know I cannot stop. This is my life, and I refuse to let them take it away.”
Fariha’s story echoes the silent struggles of many women in Afghanistan. She lost her husband in an airstrike during the Taliban’s first reign of terror. Now, in their second rule, her livelihood has been stripped away. The beauty salon that once flourished—where women found not just income but community—has been declared illegal. Fearful of exposure, she now only accepts clients she knows, but desperation sometimes forces her to take risks, serving women she barely trusts.
“I have far fewer clients than before,” she admits, her voice tinged with worry. “And I’m terrified the Taliban will find out where I work.”
Her fears are not unfounded. Taliban forces have raided Fariha’s salon multiple times, issuing stern warnings that pushed her to move her business underground in the western province of Herat. Now, she spends her days listening for every sound, cautiously peering through her windows, haunted by the nagging possibility that the next knock could be her last.
“During the first and second raids, I wasn’t at the salon,” she recalls, her eyes dark with memory. “But they questioned my neighbors and warned my mother that beauty work is forbidden. The third time, they threatened me directly—if I continued, the consequences would be severe.”
Whenever a woman comes here for beauty services, I do my best to give them hope. We must support each other and show that, despite the Taliban’s restrictions, we are still beautiful and hopeful for a better future.
Maryam, 30, beautician from Herat
Despite the fear, Fariha persists, as do many other female beauticians nationwide. Their underground work has become a form of resistance—a way to hold on to their basic rights and pursue the profession they love, even in the face of relentless danger.
Maryam*, 30, is another Herati female beautician who has transformed the basement of her home into a secret salon. Here, she serves brides and women seeking beauty treatments, offering them a brief escape from the harsh realities of their lives. Last Wednesday, a bride arrived at Maryam’s door, her face hidden beneath a burqa as she nervously glanced over her shoulder.
“Even on my wedding day, it wasn’t easy to visit the salon,” the bride confessed, her voice quivering with apprehension. “I’ve heard the Taliban raid women’s secret salons and arrest them. I asked Maryam to hurry with my makeup and hair so nothing bad would happen on this important day.”
Despite the bride’s palpable fear, Maryam reassured her, insisting that the Taliban did not know her hidden salon. But even as she applied the bride’s makeup, a nagging worry gnawed at her—what if today was the day they found her?
“Whenever a woman comes here for beauty services, I do my best to give them hope,” Maryam says. “We must support each other and show that, despite the Taliban’s restrictions, we are still beautiful and hopeful for a better future.”
Maryam learned the beauty trade while living as a refugee in Iran, and it had been her family’s only source of income. Now, her supplies are nearing expiration dates, adding another layer of stress to her already precarious situation.
“Before the ban, my business was doing well, and I bought supplies in bulk,” she explains. “But after the forced closure of salons, I brought all my products home. Now, I have very few customers, and I worry that all my investment will go to waste.”
In an increasingly hostile environment, these secret beauty salons offer a rare space where women can gather without the presence of a male guardian, share their stories, and find a brief sense of normalcy.
Like Fariha, Maryam lives in constant fear that her underground work will be discovered.
“I hope the Taliban don’t find out about my secret salon,” she says, her voice filled with worry. “But I’m always afraid someone will inform on me, and I’ll be arrested. Every day, I work in fear, but I have no choice—I must provide for my family.”
These clandestine beauty parlors have become symbols of resistance and hope for many women in Afghanistan. In an increasingly hostile environment, these secret workshops offer a rare space where women can gather without the presence of a male guardian, share their stories, and find a brief sense of normalcy.
Beauty salons, which were prohibited during the Taliban’s first rule from 1996 to 2001, had rapidly expanded throughout Afghanistan in the two decades that followed. The vibrant colors and laughter that once filled these spaces are now replaced with an atmosphere of secrecy and tension.
For women like Fariha and Maryam, the regime’s ban on beauty salons in July last year is just another cruel blow in a long list of restrictions that have erased women and girls from public life.
Three years into their second reign, the Taliban have enforced over 100 decrees based on a strict interpretation of Sharia law, systematically stripping women and girls of their fundamental rights. These measures include barring them from secondary schools and universities, curtailing job opportunities, and severely restricting their freedom of movement. Even basic acts like getting a haircut or applying makeup are now prohibited.
Before the Taliban ban, there were over 12,000 beauty salons across the country, employing 60,000 women. The ban has not only deprived women of their livelihoods but has also put further strain on an economy already in crisis, worsening a severe humanitarian situation. The once bustling salons now stand silent, their doors closed, their futures uncertain.
The Taliban’s justification for the ban, claiming that salons impose financial burdens on grooms and interfere with Islamic practices, rings hollow to those affected.
Last week, the regime announced its newly ratified morality law, mandating that women should not speak or sing in public places, wear clothing that completely covers their bodies and faces, and be accompanied by a male guardian when venturing outside.
Roza Otunbayeva, the Special Representative of the Secretary-General and head of UNAMA described the law as offering a “distressing vision” for Afghanistan’s future. She criticized the law for giving the morality police broad discretionary powers to intimidate and detain individuals based on vague infractions.
The Taliban swiftly dismissed her criticism as “baseless,” a chilling reminder of the regime’s disregard for international condemnation.
The ban on beauty salons is about more than just economics. It’s about the stripping away of women’s dignity and autonomy, their ability to make choices for themselves, their right to be seen and heard.
Masooma, 26, beautician from Kabul
The dangers for female beauticians who defy Taliban rules are real.
Some, like Maryam, have already faced raids, with their equipment confiscated and their livelihoods destroyed. Despite initially defying the ban, she was eventually forced to close her salon after the Taliban visited her home twice and warned her husband that she would be arrested if she continued. With her salon shut, the eight women who worked alongside her are now jobless and confined to their homes.
In Kabul, 26-year-old Masooma also runs an underground salon. Once a university student with dreams of becoming a doctor, her world was turned upside down when the Taliban barred women from attending universities. Stripped of her education and future, she found solace in her clandestine beauty work. Each snip of scissors and stroke of makeup is a small act of defiance against the regime that has taken so much from her.
“The Taliban took my right to education, and now they want to take away my right to work,” Masooma says, her voice filled with emotion. “But I won’t let them. Every day that I do this, I feel like I am fighting back.”
The beauty salons of Afghanistan were once places where women could find a small slice of freedom—a space where they could express themselves without the constant presence of male guardians. Now, these underground salons are among the last bastions of women’s independence in a country that seeks to erase their presence entirely.
“The ban on beauty salons is about more than just economics,” Masooma reflects. “It’s about the stripping away of women’s dignity and autonomy, their ability to make choices for themselves, their right to be seen and heard. It’s about the crushing weight of a regime that seeks to silence us, to erase us from the fabric of society.”
But even in the face of overwhelming oppression, the spirit of women like Fariha, Maryam, and Masooma endures. They may have been forced into the shadows, but they are still here—still fighting, still dreaming of a brighter tomorrow.
*Names have been changed to protect identity.
