Life over beauty

She had beautiful hair. Though she was not ugly, she had never been the prettiest girl at school. But her hair! Her hair was the most beautiful. A perfect mix of her mother’s straight blond hair and the dark curls of her father.

She was constantly receiving compliments about her long, big brown curly hair.

The hairdresser would say:

“Your head, my dear, is a hairdresser’s dream.”

Old women she’d pass by in the parc would comment:

“This child is nice and pretty. Look at her beautiful and well-maintained hair.”

Girls at school would ask:

“What is your secret? I wish I had your hair.”

She was quite popular with the boys and was always getting multiple prom proposals.

Her hair was her pride and hearing people sing praises about it was filling her with joy. Every morning before leaving the house, she would look at herself in the mirror and adjust some rebel curls.

Her hair was beautiful.

So, when the summer ended and she started senior year, it was a big surprise to see that her magnificent hair had been cut and dyed red. Three weeks later the red was replaced by blue. Then green. Then a half dozen of other color and cut combinations.

It was a fruitful subject of conversation.

The hairdresser would say:

“What a pity. It was perfect before. She doesn’t even come to the salon anymore.”

Old women she’d pass by in the parc would comment:

“Another rebel teenager. Look at her outrageous hair. It’s a shame. She was a good kid.”

Girls at school would ask:

“What is your secret? This haircut would look perfect on my dog.”

At which the boys would laugh and invent new jokes about her hair.

As much as the compliments once made her feel good and confident, the newly hurtful remarks were like punches in the guts.

Now, every morning before leaving the house, she looks at herself in the mirror. She takes the wig laying on the table and adjusts it on her head to cover the few remaining patches of hair left on her skull after chemotherapy.