The day before my sister’s wedding, I woke up bald.
At first, I thought it was a nightmare. Then my fingers brushed against my scalp, and the truth landed like a gut punch. My hair was gone—shaved down to uneven stubble, stray strands clinging to my pajama collar.
I stumbled to the mirror. A stranger stared back: jagged buzz cut, puffy eyes, disbelief frozen in place. I hadn’t cut my hair. Nobody had permission to touch it.
But someone had.
“Justice,” My Mother Said
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glittering.
“You always wanted to be the center of attention. Not this time.”
“You… did this?” I asked.
“Your sister is the bride. She deserves to shine. Not you. Not your vanity.”
My father shuffled into the hallway. “Maybe now someone will finally feel sorry for you,” he muttered, before walking away.
They left me standing there, scalp stinging under the morning sun.
