Allison Miller

Ordinary Woman

November 18, 2024

a hairbrush muddled with dust, oil, resting beside a myriad of products; oils, creams, gels, mousse, hairspray. ‘hair is everything’, someone probably says somewhere, addressing a primarily woman audience. a tedious and thorough routine of soaking, oiling, sectioning, raking, detangling. brushing, combing, brushing, combing. she recalls conversations with her ex partners about how they can’t remember if shampoo or conditioner comes first. now that she’s got a moment to gather her thoughts, she notices her current partner has never showered as long as she has combed her hair. he may never. she wonders often, about men, how little she knows about them– and, possibly even other women–in her time spent maintenancing herself. between the soaking, the combing, but most of all; the thinking, time has escaped her; the sun has long descended into the depths of night. through this day lost to her efforts, she believes she’s one step closer to it. closer to what? she wonders, rinsing her hands of those various hair products — to what end?

she rises from sleep, knowing no rest. peering over her bare shoulder, as if under supervision, she watches the early rays of winter sunlight fight their way through her blinds: ‘i’ve got to wake up earlier…’ she tells herself. the demands of life, labor, her people; all keep her up late into the night, and require her in the early morning. rushing towards readiness began with her usual morning gaze out the window, greeting the rest of the world with her bare breasts and navel. ‘there’s never enough time to take it all in’, she feels, fogging up the glass with some disapproving exhale. she closes the shutters in the name of keeping in the warmth, with little regard for the opinions of her neighbors. who cares who sees? has always been her philosophy, dreaming of some uncertain future where she is most acknowledged for who she is.

to reduce some of the stress each new day brings her, she has greatly simplified her approach to getting dressed. even with so many choices, she typically defaults to the staple articles she’s decided she looks best in: flared pants, heeled boots, long-sleeved tops. the heel helps pull everything together, she tells herself, diminishing some persisting guilt on not braving a more feminine, less casual dress. she deeply admires women who feel empowered by adorning the frilly skirt or crop-top, but her fear of deviating from her familiar styles leaves her; and those that observe her, wondering what it is that she’s really afraid of.

leaving the house has many rules, and these rules create lots of noise. it seems all women know them, but she can’t recall being taught. these things are learned over time, written in blood, enforced by the continuing tragedies of the women killed for their ignorance. the first few minutes of a woman’s walk outdoors are the loudest. somewhat profoundly, this noise is scattered with tenacious reminders to maintain her beauty:

Look straight ahead. are you wearing chapstick? Know where you’re going, Look as if you’re certain, and Have a backup plan. you brought the lip oil that you need to reapply every 15 minutes. Wear your headphones; the music should drown out the strange men’s advances. i wonder if any girls will compliment my outfit today, but i also wonder if its too out of this season’s trends. Don’t play your music too loud, or you won’t hear them when they threaten you. I should see if any new songs came out from my favorite artist. Be Pleasant towards the neighbors that know you; rumors spread quickly. did i remember to bring my perfume oil with me today? Surely, you didn’t leave your mace at home this time? surely, i didn’t ,leave my change of shoes in my other bag, for when these boots blister my feet. Make sure the security guards don’t see, you can’t afford to have no way to defend yourself.

the low hum of this sort of noise is incessant, controlling her every thought and action. she cannot separate what she has learned about what it means to perform womanhood, and what she has learned about surviving a man’s world. she knows she will never be able to. she has become her routines, efforts, and practices to minimize the workload of womanhood, practicing them daily, multiple times per day, fulfilling her role. she wonders, each day, pursuing womanhood tirelessly as if it’s her full-time job, ‘am i doing a good job?’ she asks, her every word laced with self-doubt. who, or what will assure her?

who wins that competition, ‘best at womanhood’? would it be the models, with their beauty? mothers, for their strength? young women, with their bravery? old women, with their resilience?

the ordinary woman, who greets her open bedroom window with discontent, longing for a restful night’s sleep, dreaming often of a less stressful, lonely tomorrow.

the ordinary woman rises in unrest, braving the man’s world; a bare breasted dreamer.

In thicket, I stumble
Battle prickled branches,
Bleed on the overbrush.

The sun's warmth, immortalized
in your touch 
our collision, cosmic

Overhead, your rays cut 
Through treachery,
thorns bleed me
in my pursuit,

Stumbling through thicket,
battling prickled branches
I claw through the brambles 
and collapse onto you.