She’s my Golden Girl, and yet, to put that pressure on her is to ruin the thing that makes her shine so bright. Aware, intelligent, musical, quick, funny, smiley, bold, courageous, curious, with a hint of sass and a touch of rebel, she moves through the world with her head held high. Adventurous, easy going, cool, chill, friendly, generous, comfortable, she faces each day head first.
Born to two opposites that indeed attracted each other, she equally splits the best of both parents. A self-proclaimed comic, her father laughs easily and often. A self-proclaimed reader, her mother keeps largely to herself but sees everything. And then the rounds of cancer treatments spared her life but kept the hair.
Upon our first meeting, the hair was gently explained to me as a point of pride and embarrassment. She survived cancer, afterall, but in a society like South Korea, the difference something like hair can make on the psyche of a blossoming adolescent ought to have shaped much of how she felt about herself. Instead, her cancer does not define her. Her mother has worked hard to create a sense of normalcy around her hair. They shop for wigs like they’d shop for haircuts, and she gets a wig change about twice a year.
Lately though, I’ve seen none of the wig and all of the hair. At first, she used to wear a little beanie in the winter instead of her wig, but then, she started to wear the beanie all the time. And then she swapped out the winter beanie for a little cyclist cap in the summer, and I haven’t seen her in her wig since. This was about two years ago, and I couldn’t help but feel that this tiny gesture—being able to see her with her natural hair sticking out from under a little hat—entitled me to some closeness with her as a friend.
“Write about someone you love,” via WRTGPRAC’s Daily Writing Prompt