When Sunday came around, I begrudgingly rolled out of bed, slipped on the shapeless heap of navy-blue fabric women in this kingdom called 'Sunday attire' and munched on cookies while Marissa pinned a fluttering white veil into my hair.
"Don't forget to flip this part over and cover your face before getting out of the carriage," she instructed as she finished her work.
"Yeah, yeah," I sighed. "God forbid a man see a woman's face—or even a single curve of her body—during his sacred time."
Though, if you asked my real opinion, I think God had very little to do with The Church's sexist dress code, and men had everything to do with it.
While women came to Sunday service looking like a snow-capped mountain, men could wear pretty much whatever they wanted. Nothing too flashy, of course, but they certainly didn't have a set color code and face-covering requirement.
"Just one of the many reasons I avoid The Church," I continued grumbling as I slipped on my plain black leather shoes.
