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No Birkin, Still Emirati: Being Khaleeji Doesn’t Come With A Dress Code

BYYalsa With Alyazia

November 27, 2025

In a world where the voices of Emirati women are often overshadowed, we felt it was time to create a dedicated space for their stories to shine. Yalsa With Alyazia: Conversations With An Emirati Woman is born from a desire to celebrate and amplify the diverse experiences of Emirati women—Each month, it offers a glimpse into the everyday realities and quiet inner worlds of women who are often spoken about, but rarely heard from directly.

There’s a quiet confidence that comes from letting go of being perceived a certain way, especially when you’re a Khaleeji woman. And even more so in spaces where you know, without anyone saying a word, that you’re being watched, not just by strangers, but by each other.

To be fair, Khaleeji is a regional term, but even within that term, there’s an ocean of difference. So when I speak, I’m not speaking for every Khaleeji woman. I’m speaking as myself. And if you want to know the truth, I’ve never fully fit the mold. Or perhaps, I’ve just never fit a mold, because there’s more than one.

I’ve never been the girl in head-to-toe designer. In fact, I’ve never ever owned a Celine or Birkin and never mastered the full-glam-at-all-times look. Not because I couldn’t, but simply because I didn’t want to. But that decision always came with a sense of being out of place. Like I was opting out of a performance some of us had agreed to, and others never questioned.

But even that’s shifting now. I see more and more Emirati women— women like me— carving space outside that performance. Wearing sneakers, opting for minimal makeup, or choosing comfort, not as a rebellion, but as a preference, and still showing up with just as much confidence.

I’m not an exception. I have quite a few Emirati friends who feel exactly the same. Women who also question these pressures, who wear what works for them, who exist outside the polished stereotype. We’re here, and we’re not new. So let’s talk about it. Not the “glamorous” standard, but what it means, where it comes from, and what it feels like to live around it, but not quite in it.

We recently got back from a family vacation. A cruise around Norway, if you must know. I use “vacation” loosely, because if you’ve ever traveled with kids under five, you know it’s not a break. It’s more of an endurance test with endless snacks. There’s the tiny cabin, the meltdowns, the mealtimes that feel like marathons. My daily “glam” routine? SPF, brow stain, and whatever scarf I could grab. If I had a minute to spare, I’d swipe on some lip gloss before turning to my wailing baby or the toddler who loves to climb my body like a jungle gym.

Every day, I’d walk into the buffet hall in my trusty Duozoulu sneakers, loose pants, and a shirt that I tried to color-match with my shaila (I promise I’m not completely feral). And every day, I’d see her: the perfectly polished Khaleeji girl. You know the one, or a version of her. Full face of makeup by 9 a.m. Sleek designer slides, luxury bag slung just right. Effortless, immaculate, gliding. I’d be buttering toast with one hand and wiping down a sticky high chair with the other, thinking: mashallah. But also, how?

There was a time I was so insecure about my bare face that I wouldn’t leave the house without foundation. When my makeup bag felt like my armor; if I didn’t conceal my skin, I wasn’t ready to be seen. But now? Now I walk through international waters with under-eye bags, two kids, and a scarf slipping off one side of my head. And truthfully, I’ve never felt more myself.

But that self didn’t come easy. Growing up in the Gulf, especially as a woman, beauty is a language, a code, a kind of cultural shorthand— often unspoken, but widely understood. And in our part of the world, the message is: the more polished you are, the more you signal value. Whether it’s confidence, class, or belonging, the labels and curated presence are part of an aesthetic framework that extends far beyond personal style.

I’ll never forget the time I walked into a wedding in what I thought was a full face— soft glam, lashes, earthy tones— only to have someone say, “You look like you just had a shower and came.” It wasn’t a one-time thing. In the past, I’ve felt the side-eyes, the subtle once-overs. The internalized standard that if you’re not dialed up to 10, you must not be trying. That your effort or maybe even worth isn’t showing.

But where does that come from?

Part of it is regional. In the Gulf, appearance isn’t just about looking good, it’s often about what you’re signaling, and to whom. Beauty isn’t just aesthetic; it’s tied to performance of success, control, and national pride. These standards aren’t just personal choices but collective behaviors shaped by history, wealth, and modernity.

In a post-oil Gulf, where transformation happened almost overnight, our cities became symbols of prosperity — fast, futuristic, hyper-curated. And somehow, many of us absorbed that same logic into our bodies. We became part of the skyline. We learned that to be taken seriously, you had to be polished, expensive, impressive. That if the surface shines, everything underneath must be in order too.

Luxury fashion became a language. If you looked a certain way, you could be read a certain way. And for women especially, that language became even more layered: looking “put together” wasn’t just a preference, it was a kind of social currency. It’s not all shallow. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s social structure. It’s generational memory and aspiration. I understand it.

Some of us watch each other. We mirror, we measure, we decode the outfit, the bag, the face. We all know what the “look” is, and if you don’t match it, you start to wonder if you’re failing the assignment.

Which is why I want something different for the women coming up after us. I want them to know that value doesn’t have to be visible to be real. That your worth isn’t only as solid as your highlighter game. That you can belong without performing all the time. That your softness, your presence are forms of power too.

On that cruise, I didn’t need to perform. I needed to run after my kids, climb four flights of stairs because the lift was full again, and carry wet wipes like my life depended on it. I didn’t need a full face of makeup. I wasn’t trying to dress to impress. I needed SPF and space to move. And still, every morning, I saw her. And every morning, I thought: good for her. But also: good for me.

Because we don’t all have to show up in the same way. Not every outfit needs to be a moment. Not every woman needs to look like she’s ready to be photographed. Sometimes, being “put together” looks like functional shoes, cotton fabric, and the ability to move through the world without anxiety about your pores.

This isn’t about judging the girls who love their brands and their glam. I admire them. I genuinely do. There’s beauty in that kind of commitment, and power in choosing your aesthetic with intention. And I know many women — Emirati women — who’ve found their own balance. Who’ll glam up one day and wear sweatpants the next. Because Khaleeji women contain multitudes. We’re not a monolith. We come in all shapes and colors. We carry different priorities, different bodies, different ways of being. And more and more, I see women making room for each other’s differences, not just in how we look, but in how we move through the world.

So no, I didn’t bring Hermès slides or a Dior tote. I brought teething gel, wet wipes, and a diaper bag packed to the brim. I showed up. Maybe not flawlessly styled or looking expensive, but fully present.

At the end of the day, I want my daughter to remember that her mama showed up for her. Not in heels, not in full contour, but in all the messy, tired, loud love I had to give. Laughing through the mess, surviving on croissants and caffeine, and still finding the energy to sing “Baby Shark” on a fjord. I want her to know that being enough has nothing to do with what’s on your face or in your bag and everything to do with how you show up for the people you love, and for yourself. Even if you’ve been using dry shampoo three days in a row.

Author’s Note —

This essay reflects one perspective among many. Khaleeji women are diverse, and this is just one way of living among many valid ones.

No Birkin, Still Emirati: Being Khaleeji Doesn’t Come With A Dress Code

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No Birkin, Still Emirati: Being Khaleeji Doesn’t Come With A Dress Code

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