I watch as my sister cuddles up in my bed. She begged to sleep with me, promising not to kick me while we slept. With her she carries a comically large water bottle, her fluffy blue blanket and two stuffed animals. She lays the blanket meticulously under my sheets as if to create a cocoon. On both sides lay her stuffed toys, a dragon and pink bear. I leave to brush my teeth.
I walk back through the dark hallway into the bright fluorescent lights of my room. Opposite of my bed is a large mirror, creating a 3rd person view of the space. My sister watches her reflection, shifting her hair back and forth. Even at the age of 9 I recognize her behavior, the critiquing. I crawl next to her under the covers but she leans past me to keep her examining look on herself.
“Why am I so ugly?” her eyes don't look at me to see my reaction to her question. I didn't expect girlhood to be this rough, this soon. I move to block her stare. Her eyes meet mine.
“You are not.” I say as I hold her small cheek in the palm of my hand.
“Yes. I am,” she commands back as if it's a fact. Something set in stone, no one can convince her otherwise. “All my friends are prettier than me.”
My skin seems to tense as she says it. She's too young to start comparing herself to every other girl. Once you start, the comparison never stops.
“I promise you, you are beautiful.” She doesn't believe me. “I've always told you how gorgeous your blue eyes are, I've counted 108 of your cute freckles.” I pause– the list normally includes her beautiful blonde hair. I’ve always loved her perfectly wavy, baby blonde hair.
Growing up always being brunette I envied how her hair glows in sunlight. She was always having our mom dye it every color she could think of. Months of pinks and purples, blues and greens. My eyes shift up to the patch of hair missing on her forehead.
She leaves my palm, noticing that my gaze has moved upwards and shifts her hair once more. I watch as she reveals each patch, her fingers gently tracing over the areas where her blonde hair doesn’t grow. Some spots are small and barely noticeable, while others are more prominent. She speaks softly, her voice tinged with worry.
"These spots keep getting bigger," she murmurs, her eyes drift off into the distance as she searches her hair for more spots. "I don’t want to lose more hair."
I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words to comfort her. "It’s okay," I say gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Hair grows in cycles. Sometimes it falls out, but it also grows back. Those little fuzzy spots you mentioned? They’re a sign that your hair is already starting to come back."
She looks at me skeptically, her brow furrowed with uncertainty. "But they look funny."
"They’re part of the process," I assure her, offering a smile. "It might not look exactly the same as before, but it’s still your beautiful hair. And I think those fuzzy spots are pretty cool."
She chuckles softly, a hint of amusement lighting up her face. "Cool? Really?"
"Absolutely," I reply, nodding earnestly. " Your hair is fighting to come back, and that’s something to be proud of. Your hair wants to be on your head, it can't that it falls out."
She sighs, leaning into my touch. "I just wish I didn’t have to deal with this."
"I know," I say softly, wrapping my arms around her. "It’s not fair, and it’s okay to feel frustrated. But remember, you’re not alone in this.” As the conversation continues we lay our heads down facing one another. If in that moment I could take her alopecia for myself I would, in a heartbeat. Lord knows being a girl is hard enough. In a society that glorifies a woman's beauty it's enough of a struggle without having alopecia. She's too young to already feel the pressure to be perfect in an imperfect world.
“Why can't I be normal?” she says softly, as I examine her face.
Her questions have never left me speechless before. In all the years I've been a big sister it’s always been her begging to play with me or her showing me how much she has improved some sort of gymnastics skill. Now, she's reached the age of big questions.
“You are normal– actually you’re way better than normal,” I can't think of what to say. I can’t fix what's troubling her with one heartfelt speech. “You are the most talented girl I know. You sing karaoke and are damn good at it…” the list continued but I knew it wasn't what she was asking. She knows she is talented, everyone always tells her. She's better than me at so many things even with our 11 year age gap.
I could see she was thinking, not sure how to ask the right questions to get the answers she wanted. I could tell her in a million different ways how her alopecia doesn't define her but my words would turn to tv static. She would tune it out every time she saw her reflection or everytime she put on a hat to leave the house.
She breaks the silence first. "Do you think my hair will ever grow back?"
I take a deep breath, thinking carefully about my answer. “We won’t know until we try all the treatments. We will find one that’ll grow your hair back.” As honest as I sound she's right, we don't know if her hair will grow back or if she will always have to deal with her bald patches. Alopecia has no answers.
I watch as she processes my words. "But what if it doesn’t work? What if I’m always like this?" I pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her small frame. She isn't much of a cuddler but she accepts as I pull her in.
“Well, you’ll still have a family that loves you. And friends that like to be around you. With or without your hair you’re still you.”
She nestles into my embrace, her small body relaxing against mine. “But what if they make fun of me? People always ask why I never take my hat off”
I gently stroke her back, trying to soothe her fears. “Some people might not understand, and they might say things that hurt. But, you're the toughest girl I know. If they ever mean to you you call me and I'll take care of it. I'll punch them in the gut.”
She giggles in response, “You don't have to do that.”
I smile, relieved to hear her laugh. “Okay, maybe not punch them, but I’ll definitely talk to them and make sure they understand they shouldn’t mess with my little sister.”
Her giggles turn into a soft, appreciative smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
I hold her a little tighter, feeling the warmth of our connection. “Remember, you’re not alone in this. You have a whole team behind you—me, Mom, Dad, and all your friends who love you for who you are.”
She nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know. It’s just hard sometimes.”
“I know it is,” I say, my voice gentle. “But you don’t have to go through it alone. Anytime you’re feeling down, you come to me, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers, her voice small but determined.
We lay there in silence for a while, the weight of our conversation lingering in the air. I can feel her breathing slow and steady as she begins to drift off to sleep. I continue to stroke her back, hoping that my presence brings her some comfort.
In the dim light of the room, I close my eyes and make a silent promise to always be there for her. Every time I get the chance I'll remind her of her worth. No matter what, she is beautiful: Her gorgeous blue eyes, her cute little freckles and—
with or without her beautiful blonde hair.
Recently…
It’s motherfuckin CHAPPELL ROAN. I know everyones been obsessed with her recently but ughhhhhhh she is so good. She is a bop. Has me dancing in the shower and in my car on the way to work.
I will forever and always be a Claire girl. Dosen’t everyone just wanna be sexy to one specific person. Like idgaf about being sexy to anyone else but them.
I’ve been getting back into Mac Miller again and re-listening to all his albums and damn he is so good. I love listening to all his different phases. This song samples Fireflies by Owl City!!! Goated sample.
₊ ⊹ Thank you for reading if you’ve gotten this far ⊹ ₊