Clothes We Wear

She stood staring into the mirror for long time, examining the lines around her eyes, the puffs above her cheeks, and the open pores of her forehead and nose.  She frowned as she surveyed the tiny, blond hairs growing above, between, and below the space where she had decided her eyebrows should be.  Even worse were the hairs on her upper lip, the ones she plucked and dyed religiously.  She opened her mouth wide to reveal a set of dull white teeth.  Her hair sat flat on her head and fell down lifelessly past her shoulders; it hung as straight and as boring as she had always thought it to be.  She let out an exasperated sigh and set to work.

            Her morning routine was almost sacred; she never left the house without first prostrating herself before the mirror God.  Her worship consisted of a long procession of washing and scrubbing, flipping and fluffing, blotting, dabbing, wiping, and brushing.  Liquids, bars, powders, and gels were each applied in turn.   “No one wants to see me like this,” she thought as she dipped a small sponge into a plastic container of age defying chemicals.  Though she was well practiced in her daily tradition and went through each motion with swiftness, it still took a half hour before she had finished completely.  “There,” she thought at last, “that’s better.” 

            She left the bathroom and made her way to the closet.  It was overflowing with clothes from the past: jeans and pants that were no longer in style, last year’s blouses and tops, jackets that were not currently fashionable, shoes she had once loved but now considered passé, and an assortment of belts, purses, and other accessories that had each had their turn in the sun but had not seen the light of day for some time.  At the forefront of all of this hung the clothes from which she was now selecting.  She grabbed a pair of dark blue jeans and struggled mightily to pull them up over her womanly curves.  She did a few, quick squats to stretch the material out so her skin could breathe, but it had little effect: every inch of the fabric clung to her legs like frightened children in a haunted house.  She selected an overpriced shirt with simple design and pulled a tight fitting, black jacket over it.  When she had finished adding a belt and jewelry she picked out a pair of towering, black leather stilettos from the closet floor and set about strapping them to her pedicured feet.  Her jacket and jeans constricted her movements considerably and by the time she had finished with the shoes there were a few tiny dew drops of sweat on her brow.  She dabbed these away with a nearby towel and pushed herself off the bed and into an uneasy stance.  She steadied herself quickly and stood staring at her reflection in the full length mirror attached to the inside of her closet door.  The sore spots around her eyebrows and lips were well hidden by heavy makeup, but she could still feel the slight burn of plucked hair.  The jeans were still synched to her legs and the jacket restricted her arm movements.  Her feet showed marks from the blisters that had formed after the last time she had worn these stilettos and already she could feel the material slowly rubbing away at the sensitive skin.  But none of this mattered in the face of one important fact: she looked good. 

            She left her apartment with her head held high and her hips on swag.  She had reason to be confident: she had the look.  The tight jeans, the tall shoes, the dark colors, the perfectly coiffed hair, the painted on face, all of this was in perfect alignment with the most popular style at the time.  She looked exactly as she should.  As she made her way down the street she crossed paths with a woman wearing a colorful, flowing dress that came down to her knees.  It had a bright, floral pattern and seemed happy to be worn.  “What is she wearing?” our heroine thought to herself.  “When was the last time floral dresses were even in style?  And all that color.  Doesn’t she know that darks are in?”  She scoffed at the poor woman and proceeded onwards.

            Sometime later, as she was nearing her final destination, she came across two Muslim women, both of whom were wearing veils hiding their hair and ears and long sleeve shirts and pants covering both wrist and ankle.  She thought they looked uncomfortable.  She had asked women like this before why they allowed themselves to be told what to wear; why they didn’t choose to dress more freely.  They had replied that it was indeed their choice and that they preferred to dress the way they did.  She was incredulous.  “What sheep,” she thought to herself.  “What mindless adherence to such an obviously chauvinistic standard of proper dress.  Isn’t it clear to them that this style, if one can call it a style, is the result of the interpretations and opinions of a patriarchal society?  Can’t they see that they are being forced to adopt someone else’s standards of decency?  Don’t they realize that it is not their choice, not their free choice, to wear such cumbersome and uncomfortable clothes?  That it was ordained by society, by culture?  Predetermined by a paternalistic majority, dead-set on forcing upon women their own ideals of propriety?  They think they are free.  They believe they have chosen to wear these clothes, that they had a say in the matter.  Ha!  If only they would open their eyes to the world around them.  Their society has dictated what clothes they wear.  Their culture, their religion, their community and family: these are the elements that have chosen for these young girls what clothes they should wear, what style they should embrace.  These girls are mere sheep, being led by the traditions of men who have died many centuries ago.  Sheep, being forced into bulky and burdensome clothing, all the while thinking that it was their decision to make.  Ha,” she laughed again, “Stupid girls.  They are not free like I am.  I wear whatever I want: short or long, colorful or dark, simple or elegant.  I don’t have to conform to someone else’s ideas and opinions.  I have freedom.  Real freedom.  These girls have only an illusion.”

She continued on confidently until a flash of color caught her eye.  Many stories above, painted on a giant billboard, a woman was smiling down on her.  She was dressed in a flowing, brightly colored floral print dress that was being blown by an unseen breeze.  In the bottom right-hand corner of the billboard, the words “the next BIG thing” were printed in simple, white lettering.  Just below that, the name of famous designer in New York.  She gazed up at the oversized poster for a moment before moving on.  “What a beautiful dress,” she thought gaily to herself, “and those shoes!  Oh, just darling.”  She stole a quick glance down at the clothes she was wearing now.  They seemed so drab and lifeless, so clingy.  Where was the color?  Where was the flow?  A feeling of insecurity began to well up inside of her until it felt as though every person she saw was silently passing judgment against her.  “I’ll have to go shopping this weekend,” she decided, “I can’t be happy in such dreary, ill-fitting clothes.”