Leah V Gets a Live Brazilian Wax

A lot of folks are dying to know how I maintain my, umm, errggh, lower regions.

I am proud to say that I get Brazilian waxed regularly. So, follow me as I get a live Brazilian wax! If you love my content and want to continue to seeing my face and want to support a fat, Black, Muslim artist just trying to make a semi-honest living (LOL) then I encourage you to LIKE, SHARE, COMMENT, AND SUBSCRIBE.

And, you can always be my Patron, any amount helps: https://www.patreon.com/leahvernon

PayPal: Leahjvernon@gmail.com

Venmo: @LeahV

Lastly, don't forget to follow me @Lvernon2000

Have you ever been waxed before? What’s your experience? Let’s chat:)

Confusion In New York: Week One

My Confusion In New York: Week One

This marks week one down as a New Yorker.

I am clearly not one. Yet. Or maybe ever. I’m still on the fence about this whole big move thing. I mean, you never really know if you are actually going to like something until you dive in and then figure out that you absolutely hate it or love that shit. Or eh about it.   

Although I don’t necessarily miss Detroit, I don’t want to actually be here as of now. New York is an unfamiliar place. It’s busy and loud and busy and lots of funny smells. By funny smells, I mean shit. It sometimes smells like shit.

When I used to day dream about the big city, I always used to think of it like in the movies. It was very fancy and very Caucasian. Love stories and opportunities and things just seemed quite easy.

That it not the case. It is not as easy as the movies would make it seem. Everything is close but so spaced apart. Most of my friends live in other boroughs that are about 45-minute subway rides away. Although me and my weak knees are semi-capable of trudging down hundreds of cement steps to push through crowds of bodies on the platform, it seems like so much to do just for an hour and a half of social interaction.

I am used to the ease of hopping in my car and driving 15 minutes to unexpectedly drop into my friends’ house and have snacks and talk shit about people we don’t like.

Here is not the same. They have no idea of the people that I don’t like. They don’t know shit about me at all.  

Which is a bit isolating. I just want to put my old friends in my fuckin pocket and bring them here. But, they have lives and kids, I guess. And, there’s not much room in my pocket to thrive.  

Another thing is that everyone is busy all the time here. That’s what I came for though, so why hadn’t I expected everyone to carry that same dose of grind? Detroit has a very laid-back type atmosphere that I have grown used to. New York does not. It’s a city on steroids. Everyone is on go-go-go mode.

People keep saying that I will get used to it, but will I?

On top of that, I am being semi-kicked out of my new-ish apartment after only being moved in for three whole ass days. I know that one day I will look back on this major inconvenience and laugh about it. As of now, this is no laughing matter. I am pissed. The time that I could be spending looking for jobs to pay rent, I know have to find another place plus find gigs to pay rent.

I am already tired of thinking about it.

And!!! I don’t have the credit score or income to qualify for most rooms. So, there’s that. Welcome to NEW YORK! The land of shady landlords that kick folks out after only a few days of residence.

The last thing that I will complain about and update you on would be that I do not belong. And not in that sense, I do belong in some way or another, but I don’t have a core group of folks that got my back or can shoot my photos or help me do random shit late at night.

I am starting from scratch. Just that sentence made me doze off. I have to start over again building my core people. It took me damn near years to do that in Detroit and now at 31 years old, I gotta do it again. Clearly, I like abuse because NYC is gnawing at my leg right now.  

Baby steps, girl, is what I keep telling myself. Because if I don’t, then I will pack a truck with all my shit and dart right back to Detroit. Where it is bland but at least I know people!

Xoxo,

Leah V

Creating Your Own Opportunity

Photos Courtesy of Joshua Kissi NYC

The future is so unsure. Seems like nowadays things—people are so uncertain. Some of us are up then some of us are down, and we just fluctuate from being up and down then down and up again. I’ve noticed this since I’ve recently been deemed as whole ass grown adult that life is fluid. And, that at the end of the day we all have choices—whether we think we do or don’t. You have a choice and so do I. Doesn’t matter how bad or good something is, you can say yes or no. Perhaps, even maybe.

I remember in my teens and early 20’s that I longed for someone to tell me the “right” way to do life things. I wanted people of age to give me the answer, that golden truth of success and belonging in this world. For the most part, the people who knew nothing about me or wanted me to fall in their content with “whatever I’m given” footsteps told me what I should do, who I should be. I rebelled because if life looked anything like what they were handed, what they accepted then I wanted no parts in it.

For the few folks that I regarded with high esteem and respect, they would always tell me something along the lines of “create your own opportunity”.

I’d grumble internally, angry at the fact that they hadn’t given me the answer that I so desperately wanted, that I needed. I needed an adult to tell me what to say, how to think, and most importantly tell me what my voice was. What it sounded like. Where to find it.

“Create your own opportunity, Leah,” the voices of mentors echoed.

I couldn’t comprehend what they meant. I looked at the shit I had—which was zero and found it impossible to create something viable from nothing. These adults must’ve had it all wrong. Clearly, they’d been set up much more lucratively than I. I was never going to be the person I was looking for.

I still never stopped asking myself as well as others about this so-called self-made opportunity.

Although hard-headed and rigid in my thinking, I’ve got to give credit to myself, I have always been curious. Curious to know how stories and narratives came to be. To exist. I’ve always been curious to know why some of us have and others have not. What characteristics does one have to possess to be on the other side of greatness.

To me, greatness was always something I’ve dreamed of, yet hadn’t known exactly what it entailed. But, I always knew it’d be good for me to experience.

I complained a lot about the resources I didn’t have. I’d explain my ideas to different artists and friends, and they’d be like, you should do it. And, I’d always reply, “I’m Black, I’m fat, and I’m a poor woman. You’ve gotta have resources to pull that off.”

There were times in my life where I hadn’t had shit. Like nothing. But, looking back, that’s not fully true. I remember one time, I had upwards of ten calls per day coming from bill collectors. My bank account was in the negative. Overdraft on top of overdraft. The phone calls were getting to me. I couldn’t pay them no matter how bad I wanted to. So, they continued to blow my phone up.

“I’m stuck,” I cried. As the tears rolled down my cheeks, I got up and opened the door.

I returned to the couch, sniffling and watching the clouds go by. I was angry that I was so educated and had no job. And, that the jobs that were paying were 8 and 10 dollars an hour. Which would only put a dent in my piling debt. I was mad that my husband at the time could only afford to hold down the rent and nothing else. I was mad that my mom was mentally ill and that my daddy wasn’t there. That my family hadn’t reached out nor was financially able to lift me out of the shit show that I’d created trying to educate myself in America.

I cried and cried and cried some more.

After that, I asked myself a question: what can you do right now for free instead of crying and feeling sorry for what you don’t have?

I answered myself: I could probably write. I mean, I do like writing stories and I do want to be a serious writer one day. I could write for practice at least.

So, I wrote.

What else can you do for free? I can post my stories on Instagram.

So, I posted things on Instagram.

There were fashion events and networking events that I could meet people at. Some free and some not. For the ones that weren’t free, I emailed the organizers and told them that I had no money but would like to attend. 90% of them would send me complimentary tickets.

I created content and emailed people. When that batch was a fail, I created more things and emailed it to more people. Most of them were rejected or ignored. I had my times where I was like fuck this opportunity shit. I need a real job. My bills aren’t going to get paid from “opportunity”. Which meant that in-between jobs that I absolutely loathed I created content and emailed people.

My thoughts were that if I kept doing this that one day someone would be like hey! She’s not only talented but diligent. For the most part, I would hang onto the hope that one day I’d get the yes that I was looking for. I knew that I was good, but I needed others in my fields to validate my talent on a larger scale. I couldn’t do it alone.

When I tell you to create your own opportunity, I am telling you something that has been said to the folks before me and will be told to the folks after me until the end of time. You might not get it right now and maybe you will not understand it, but there is so much wealth in that simple statement.

Opportunities are everywhere, all around us just floating around. Many of us don’t see it. Many of us miss it. Many of us allow them to pass because we are too scared that we aren’t qualified. That we will make a fool of ourselves. We get that “what will other people think?” syndrome going on.

But what would happen if you just did it anyway? Learned as you go. Grabbed that opportunity by the arm and molded it into something cool and great. Something with purpose.

Stop waiting for an opportunity to stumble upon you. Go out there and capture one.

xoxo,

Leah V

Day 1: 30 Days in NYC

Photos Courtesy of The Travel Critic

Last month, I decided to buy a ticket to New York. To live for 30 whole days. To feel what it feels to be a New Yorker. To see if I can “make it” here.

Why? Well, several reasons. Detroit is a dead-end for me. I keep trying to figure out why I’m still there, actually. Also, people never believe that I am from Detroit. It’s like I’m so freakin unicorn. They always guess New York or LA. Anywhere but Detroit. Every time I come to New York on business and see all of my friends, they always end the conversation with “Bitch, would you move here already!” I usually chuckle and say, “It’s not the right time.”

When is the time ever right, though? With the whole “time” thing, I also just don’t have the income. But, when do I ever have the income? LOL.

I am also slightly fibbing. Not like a whole ass lie, but a fib.

Although, I really don’t have the income to support myself in the Big Apple, I am scared as fuck mostly. Moving to NYC is a whole ass change from Detroit. All of my friends are in Detroit. Like my real-ass-down-for-whatever-type sister friends are there. I also hate the subway system. People just not washing their hands and touching on everything. Ugh! They also put their garbage on the sidewalk! Double ugh.

I might’ve also been in some mental distress during that time of said purchase of the ticket. But before I bought it, I asked myself. Are you really happy here? I also added: Are you truly thriving in Michigan?

My finger hoovered over that final submit button as I made sure to pick that date of February 12th (cuz I wasn’t trying to be in Detroit surrounded by all the lovey-dovey couples on V-Day). I’d rather be alone in New York than in the seemingly relationship capital of the world, Michigan.

Which brings to me why I dropped in (y’all know my blogging is sporadic af). Well, there’s several reasons. All which lead to fear. I’ll explain because I’ve been talking a lot about that lately.

Because in my 31-year-old mind, I feel like I’m anxious about everything. I’m constantly jumping up at the most minor surprises. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve literally screamed when my roommate appears out of nowhere.

For the last month, I’ve been preparing for New York. With each passing day, more anxiety surfaces. There’s not enough time to get it all done. I’m under deadlines galore. People are texting and emailing and asking for shit, that I may or may not have. On the flipside, bills are like everywhere. On top of my hijab, whispering in my ear, and putting me in headlocks.

What if you fail? I asked myself the night before my flight. I had been packing for two days straight and in a slump because New York is so expensive and for me to be here for a month will cost me too much and I still have to pay for rent and car note back at home. Double the bills!

The morning came and I felt like shit. Like complete and utter shit.

“I’m not going,” I said to myself. “Nope. Imma stay right here. Cuz it’s easier.”

I text my friend. She was like nope. I burst out crying. It was too much to uproot my entire life. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t compete with the New York crowd. They are the top of the litter. Who was I? Just a Midwest gal trying to level up.

What had I expected to get done in 30 days? I knew I wanted to meet folks and try to get a few gigs, but other than that I hadn’t had a plan.

No plan at the age of 31 sounds messed up. By this age, I’d thought that I’d have the answers. Or at least most of them. Right now, my gut is telling me to be in New York. That there is something here that I need to discover, uncover. Yet, I have no idea what that is.

I sound crazy. Maybe I am crazy.

I’ve always wanted to be in New York, but I always wanted the glamourized version. The Caucasian movie version. With the income I have I gotta take the thug version, leap, and see what happens.

My insecurities have been heightened. Am I unique enough to break through that ceiling? Is my story worthy of being told here? Will I have the stamina, the perseverance to continue to pitch myself even when I’m told to fuck off?

Right now, I am second guessing my strength because I am in a foreign place. Right now, I am struggling to find—remember my whys. The why now? The who cares?

I don’t give myself enough credit either. I have forgotten how much shit I’ve done, accomplished from little ole Detroit, the almost middle of nowhere. How many people in New York hadn’t even gotten the same opportunities as I had, and I don’t even live here? That says something. That means that I’m valuable enough that folks have sought me out and would spend a budget to have me flown in. I still can’t believe people fly me out to give talks and model. That’s nuts!

I don’t give myself enough credit for continuing to tell my truths, my story even after the way I’ve grown up, how my marriage went, how I fucked myself over by caring what others thought of me. Even after all the shit that has been said and done to me, I am still here. I remain. Just as hardheaded as ever. Although, I have my afraid moments, I do it anyway. Although, I have no idea where I am going, I go anyway. And, that is admirable in my eyes. It means something.

I guess what I am telling you is that at some point you will be scared to do things, you will absolutely not want to do it, but if you want to metaphorically fly at some point, you’ll have to step out of your comfort zone and take the leap. No one is going to make you do it. No one is going to show you the way. You have to pave your own way. You have to be uncomfortable in order to grow. And, I don’t know about you but growth ain’t an option. It’s a necessity. I’m trying to grow beyond my wildest imagination.

So, here’s to Day 1 in New York.

xoxo,

Leah V     

Accepting My Body As It Is

My body has done some pretty amazing things lately. I mean, some things that I’d never thought it would do. It breathes for me when I sleep. It’s able to do an hour of cardio without stopping. It has allowed me to successfully complete a five-city college speaking tour. And, yeah, in between those good times, it’s been achy, moody, and fatigue, but it still pushes even when I’ve given up.

Do you ever take the time to appreciate your body?

There was a time for me when I hadn’t. I fully underestimated my body, my self. I fully allowed others to dictate how I viewed it, how I treated it. I policed its every move to the point of self-harm and self-hatred. I loathed everything about it. The way it spoke, the way it awkwardly moved and hid itself in the shadows of beautiful, thin people. How the light drained from it once I stepped on a scale and saw that the first number started with a 3 instead of a 1. The ‘you shouldn’t eat that’ and the ‘you shouldn’t wear that’ crumbled me to the point of extinction.

I couldn’t find one part of me that was acceptable, beautiful, worthy. What a cruel life to live. Walking around like an insecure shell of a human. That was me. For many years. An empty vessel filled with worthlessness.

How many of us are walking around like that right now? With our heads down, scanning the internet for #Thinspo and #BodyGoals. In search of the next quick fix DIE-t plan and flat tummy tea. Scrolling aimlessly through a Kardashian’s feed, pinpointing all the spots of skin with no stretch marks and wishing our thigh gaps could be as wide. Adding seventeen different filters to a selfie that we took out of a hundred selfies that all look the same. Swipe left. Swipe right. Swipe left. Swipe right. That’s my better angle. Hiding double chins and smoothing out cellulite from an app we paid 2.99 for. Comparing ourselves to the perky-breasted super-model on the cover flap of a popular magazine without knowledge that she has an entire team to make her look so ‘picture perfect’.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

I, too, have fallen into the media trap where I’d fallen so deep that I couldn’t get up. One perfect page leads to the next perfect page and I’ve found myself comparing and contrasting my body to hers. Wishing I could have some of what she had. This perfect Insta-Model has got it all. And, I had nothing at all. Why had she been so lucky?

One day, I decided to not compare myself to others. Well, not completely, but much less. It’s humanly impossible to not compare. Less is better.

One day, I asked myself what if I loved and appreciated my body how it was in that exact moment? What if I worked on being healthy and strong and built my endurance, instead of weighing myself twice a day and starving to the point of migraines? What would it look like to accept my body as is?

I hadn’t known what it looked like because I’d never seen it before. But, I was willing to try.

I started with looking in the mirror instead of passing them by. Avoiding them. I started dancing in public. Instead of dancing on the sidelines, I moved to the middle where the action was. I became less aware of my jiggly parts. Thin bodies hadn’t jiggled. So, I was always conscious about my folds moving when I moved. That had to stop. I took selfies and I posted them. I tackled my insecurities head on and exploited them instead of hiding them. I told people to look at the parts that I tried so hard to hide. I claimed those parts, no matter how upsetting they were.

Why had they upset me so much in the first place? Because they hadn’t fit into the mold of traditional beauty? My jiggly parts, my spaced teeth, large forehead, wide-set toes, and hip pockets weren’t considered beautiful. They were very much so the opposite attributes of beauty that we seen growing up.

I hated myself because everyone told me to.

But, I had a choice. And, I chose to live life with my body as it was.

Many of times we go on these rants and raves about finding the answers to life’s questions. We go on these quests to figure out the root of our happiness. When the answer is always within us. It’s there the entire time. We just have to go through the process of internal self-discovery. And, that means making the choice to do something different. Making the choice to pull ourselves out of the loop. To view it from a different angle.

xoxo,

Leah V

The Deletion of the Perfect Instagram Hijabi

I was flown to Columbia University in New York last week by the Muslim Protag Student Organization to speak on a panel about how body-positivity and fashion related to authenticity in today’s times. Although very nervous—as I always get with speaking engagements—I felt right at home as the mainly student filled room interacted positively when I advocated about being an ally for Black Muslims, Muslims who’d been hushed by the media, fat people, disabled people, and dark people.

I told them to feel free to snap their fingers or to whip their turban or hijab back and forth if they heard something that I said which resonated with them.

And, girl, there was a lot of whippin and snappin going on.

Someone asked me about being an openly Muslim blogger, who also happened to be Black and fat, and how I remained authentic in that space.

For some reason, all the ‘Perfect Hijabi’ bloggers popped into my head.

Hijab: VELA Scarves

I responded, “Hmm, I’m not sure I want to say this here.”

The crowd gassed me up. Shouting, “Say it. Say it!”

“You know I’m really tired of the Hijabi bloggers being so damn perfect. Like, come on. They are all thin, usually white passing with the perfect wardrobe and the most perfect pastel Instagram aesthetic. They have the most perfect husband with the most luxurious and conditioned Muslim man beard. And they have like a ‘get into heaven’ free card because they are just the most perfect human beings.” I rolled my eyes and laced with sarcasm, I concluded, “I want to be like that one day.”

Eyes widened, jaws dropped, and laughs erupted. I heard claps and snaps. And, some even flew out of their seats.

No one had said it out loud until that moment. Said what we are all thinking in our petty little heads. Why do Muslimah influencers feel the need to push this oh-so-perfect agenda off on others?

And, I get that one could argue that being ‘too real’ can add to Islamophobia and that the world doesn’t need to see Muslims in a ‘bad light’. Ever since 9/11 occurred, Muslims have felt the need to put on this perfect persona so that others couldn’t stereotype them. Mistake them as aggressive or too Muslim or radical or oppressed. One of those Muslims that they saw on TV blowing up things and carrying curved swords and screaming ‘Death to all AMERICANS’.  

On top of the pressures of remaining perfect in the public eye, we have community-rooted issues of how a Muslim woman should be within her family as well as the community. And these circumstances vary, not all situations are like this, but I guarantee that you have either witnessed or been in one or more of these situations.  

You do not bring shame to your family under any circumstance. While your brother, Ahmad, is out living his best life, you are held to much higher standards. You look the part. Hijab is crucial. You don’t wear hijab, life is almost over and you have elders questioning your religion. Skinny jeans or leggings? Oh no. You are clearly on the path to destruction. Dating? While your brother, Muhammad A.K.A Mo, is bringing white chicks to the family functions. You on the other hand will fall straight into the pits of hell if you even ponder a hot guy before marriage.

Got a mental illness? Drop two rakats. You clearly aren’t praying enough. And, no, I’m not saying you shouldn’t pray when a calamity befalls you, but resources for anxiety and depression are available if you need them.

Other cliché topics that a lot of perfect hijabi bloggers don’t touch are sexual abuse, misogyny, racism, and body-shaming. Of course, because those kinds of topics don’t fit into their pastel social media aesthetic filled with fancy doughnuts and lavish trips to Dubai. Oh, yeah. I’m calling them out.

The reason why the perception of perfect, Instagram Muslimahs are so problematic is for several reasons.

You make your followers feel as if they aren’t good enough, that they aren’t Muslim enough. You create this bubble that just isn’t reality. What most influencers fail to understand is that there are other people on the opposite side of that screen. People place influencers on such high pedestals and will try to emulate whatever it is that they do. They don’t necessarily understand that these photos and blogs and projects are only curated snippets of an actual life.  

Newsflash: Muslim girls aren’t perfect. And, we don’t need to be. Perfection doesn’t exist. So, why are we punishing ourselves to attain it? Stop allowing your mom, husband, society to dictate how you should or shouldn’t be. Stop wearing masks to make others feel comfortable in your presence.

Life is about making mistakes and learning from them. It’s about exploration and maintaining an identity. It’s about connecting with your creator and striving each day to be better than you were the day before.

Instead of pushing perfection, which is really lowkey fakeness, try promoting individuality. Let your platform know that this is how you present yourself, but that it’s nothing wrong with stepping outside of the box and creating your own unique path.

XOXO,

Leah V

Leah V Makeup Tutorial

Get ready with me as I take you through how I get my face ready for a photo shoot. 

Here's what's in my makeup bag: 
Foundation: @imancosmetics Concealing Foundation
Pressed Powder: @lorealmakeup True Match
Highlighter: Sonia Kashuk Luminosity Bronzer
Cheek: @maccosmetics Powder Blush
Lip: @wetnwildbeauty and @rimmellondonus Lip Velvet

Tell me what three items in your makeup bag that you can NOT absolutely live without? 

Don't Forget to Follow ME @ Lvernon2000

Song: "Say It" by @RVXMendoza

I Was Called a Whore Because of This Photo

All day, I’ve been blocking Muslims on Instagram. Men, women, and children. Most of them from the Middle-East.

Why? Because a modest instablog, Modestroute, that showcases Muslim women around the world decided to repost one of my photos.

In the photo, I am fully clothed. I have on all black. A faux leather jacket because I’m poor. A shirt and a pair of jeans. I also have on hijab and black lipstick. My fist is balled and in the air and my eyes are closed. I originally posted the photo back in the summer to bring awareness to racial and social injustice. It’s a dope photo. I got like fifteen mosquito bites from standing in the tall grass that day during the shoot.

Instead of people liking the photo or just scrolling past my Black face and my fat body, they went into attack mode. Swarming not only the photo on Modestroute’s page but on my personal page. “This is haram,” a Muslim man posted.

“Sorry, but how is this modest?” another user asked.

“She’s gorgeous, but she can cover up more,” said a Muslim girl who hadn’t worn hijab in her profile photo.

“Muslim??? Feminist??? Make up??? Wallahi end of times is NEAR!!!” one person exclaimed.

One user argued, “Her clothes are more modest than many other Muslim girls out there. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t represent Muslims,” a girl said. If I hadn’t represented a real Muslim woman then who was I at all?  

On my personal page, the jabs were worse. Users sought out photos and trolled in the comment sections. They said: I should cover my body for the sake of Allah (swt), what I wore wasn’t proper hijab, I was even called a whore and shaitan (devil), and that I couldn’t possibly be Muslim. The last comment hurt most of all. That my Islam was so deeply rooted by what I chose to wear…or not wear.

I blocked so many folks that I lost count.

I’ve written about this before, but I am so very tired of having to validate my Islam. I’m tired of the ‘are you Muslim’ question when clearly ‘Muslim Feminist’ is stated in my bio. I’m tired of Arab-speaking Muslims treating me as if I don’t know the rules of Islam because I’m Black, asking me if I celebrate Ramadan or if I know the Al-Fatiha by heart. Clapping like I’m some kind of circus monkey when I reply yes. Why isn’t just me saying that I’m Muslim enough? When did we move into an era where we have to prove our closeness with Allah (swt) or spirituality? And, why do some Muslims feel the need to be super-Muslim and correct every wrong and cross every T? I feel like we are in a time where everyone is an internet mufti accredited by Sheik Google.

Guess what? I know the rules of proper hijab as stated in the holy book, but I choose not to do it. I choose to wear tight jeans and leggings and turbans and lipstick and nail polish. That’s what I choose to do. And that is my ultimate choice how outwardly Muslim I’d like to look. That choice doesn’t make me any less of a Muslim. I’m sorry to burst your Islamic bubble. I don’t go around harassing Muslims who choose to wear abayas or niqab just because I don’t wear it. Nor do I judge them solely based on what they wear or how they wear it. Newsflash: there are bad Muslims who wear modest clothing. There are bad Muslims who have full beards. There are bad Muslims all around the world. Just like there are bad people all around the world.

When we get down to the root of Islam, there is a way to guide a Muslim to the straight path or correct a wrong. Bashing someone on the internet is far, far away from it. You are not helping me dress more modestly. You are not helping me strengthen my spirituality or faith. You are harming yourself, because who knows, you may end up dealing with a similar situation.

We are so worried about appearances of Muslim women and girls that we forget what Islam is all about. The outer appearance is only a small portion of our belief system. Islam encompasses all levels of spirituality from low to high, and we all struggle with different trials. I may struggle with dress and another may struggle with speech and another with greed.  

Should we all just start calling each other haram? Should we all begin trolling one another? Maybe we should check our intentions and understand that there is much more to a Muslim than his/her way of dress.

XOXO,

Leah V