I remember sitting in the hospital hallways watching nurses in their crisp white uniforms, their straightened hot-combed silky hair (njwiri njine) beautifully styled, their nurses caps pinned on the top of their heads and nice clean shoes on their feet. All nurses wore dresses, decently reaching below their knees. Majority of women did not wear pants back then. All the nurses I saw wore colorful wide belts around their waist, making their uniforms look even more stylish. They all wore stockings on their legs making them look flawless.
I remember looking at my legs and feet; cracked heels (miatuka), blackened (gikuri) knees and ankles from not washing them properly or frequently, my elbows equally black and ashen looking, headscarf on my head to cover my uncombed hair just like my mother and her age mates. My hands were even worse. Blisters on the palms, dirty uneven finger nails, blackened knuckles; I looked like a monkey. For the first time I felt ashamed of the way I looked. I made a vow to start taking better care of myself to look half as decent as those nurses who looked divine.
That is what the hospital did for us. It put a mirror in front of us and we started seeing ourselves as others saw us. Before the hospital, the bar was set so low, nobody made any effort to reach higher. We were all the same and our standards and circumstances were similar, so there was no challenge. But with these hospital employees setting such a high standard in appearance, we had to pull up our socks, somehow.
