I picked up my copy of Vanity Fair today and flipped through the ads—women of various stages of dress, modeling couture, makeup, jewelry. The magazine practically shouts that you can be gorgeous, powerful, strong, anything you want—and then I turned on CNN.

Watching a few minutes of life in Afghanistan, I saw Muslim men holding guns, striding past their wives hiding under burqas, that enveloping outer garment covering their entire bodies.

Are these poor ladies forced to endure an existence with little or no self esteem or had they discovered some ancient truths that we in the West had never considered?

Maybe their cover-ups were a ploy for privacy, their own secret battle to exert their independence. By allowing men to feel superior, they get them off their backs while also dispensing with those extra hours wasted having to primp for them.

Okay, these ladies do have a dozen kids, so the men aren’t far away, but look at the time they’re saving!

They’re not running around shopping, buying makeup, applying it, getting their hair done, staring into the mirror anxious about crows’ feet, searching for those perfect silver earrings…

Instead, they spend hours chatting with friends and family. And I’m not talking cellphone minutes. They spend quality time with their children and might even find special moments alone.

Are they on to something?

What if we covered up and didn’t care what they looked like?

Would that make us better people?

My God, the changes would be enormous, instantaneous, a stab to the heart of American business, artistry, medicine... The list goes on and on.

Beauty salons would board up their doors.

Who’d need them? After you reel in a husband, who cares if your hair looks gray, kinky, layered, or teased? And don’t worry that your man will go hounding around for another woman.
His chance of finding something decent under another hood are slim.

Dermatologists would run fire sales on Botox and Restylane, but no one would scamper in breathlessly, white knuckled that they'd miss their chance for that one last injection.

Skin cancer? Gone forever if the skin’s always shielded from the sun.

Plastic surgeons?

Nary a one.

Who needs a nose job when you got a burqa.

Face lift? Let’s spell the answer together.

Now the exception might be implants. Some terribly superficial men (have you ever met one of those?) demand that their women get enlarged, so her chin might be falling to her chest, but her boobs will meet her mouth halfway up.

And the future can only get brighter.

Closet clutter will disappear. Sweaters, belts, Victoria Secret bras, jeans, T-shorts, and all those shoes from DSW.

And how about those wasted acres around our cities—schmata alley in Miami, the lower East side of New York, all malls, shopping villages, boutiques.

Things will be cleaner, neater. And talk about money saved!

Until one smart alecky guy—let’s call him Markowitz--thinks of maybe dressing up a burqa with a ruffle on the side. And another guy, Timmy, who’s sort of swishy, but women love him, suggests opening the hijab or head covering, and giving air to the lips, or bringing out a strand or two of flyaway hair—kind of like a nun on a windy day.

And we’d still have quality time to concentrate on what’s important in life.
While not forgetting that handbags were never abandoned, or manicured fingernails, or toe rings.

Yes, this can work, just like it does for the Afghan women, if only we’d give it a try.