A
S THE PLANE LANDS
with a gentle bump, the
dance of the veils begins.
Women pull colourful
hijabs from their handbags, covering
curls and balayage highlights, while
I struggle to contain every last strand
of hair under my own headscarf,
wrapped tightly under my chin.
“That’s not necessary,” laughs the
woman next to me, her own scarf
pushed back by scarlet nails as
far as gravity will allow. From my
first moments on Iranian soil, this
mysterious and misunderstood
land is nothing like I imagined.
Like most British travellers, my
journey starts in the capital, Tehran,
as part of a tour group (independent
travel is not allowed for UK citizens).
Backed by the snow-capped Alborz
Mountains, the metropolis is home
to more than 14 million people.
Grand Ayatollah Khamenei, the
leader of the fundamentalist regime,
gazes down from giant billboards
that line the traffic-clogged streets.
Yet, chic young women sporting
skinny jeans under their mandatory
manteaux (light overcoats)
outnumber those cloaked in
conservative black chadors. Come
evening, couples stroll hand-in-hand
along Tabiat Bridge, a sculptural
footbridge connecting two parks in
the north of the city.
“Iran is slowly changing and
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