The Tax

Every week, I spend two hours washing my hair. Getting ready to go out takes another two or three. My brother needs five minutes: shirt, pants, perfume, done.

Nobody ever handed us a rule. It just arrived, built from a thousand small expectations about how a woman should look, until it started to feel like gravity.

Opting out is possible, but it isn’t free. Standing apart from what people expect takes courage, and the price is being discussed, being judged, and arguing with yourself afterwards. Most of us quietly decide the two hours are cheaper.

I haven’t figured out where I stand. Some days I love getting ready. It’s mine, and I enjoy it. Other days I want to be like my brother: simple, easy, out the door.

The hours aren’t the problem when I choose them. They’re the problem when I’m paying them to avoid being judged.