When I started writing this, I wanted to describe what she looked like. I wanted my thoughts on her hair and her skin and her body to be known…And then I realized the details of her appearance would only reinforce the problems unnecessarily created by girls and how we view each other. I would be the hypocrite recreating my own problem. So for all you know, she was beautiful or hideous, large or small, perfect or flawed.
I was sixteen years old and had started my first “real job” at a custard shop just a couple of miles from my house. This girl was outspoken, always in your face with her stories and elaborate plans. Her behavior screamed, “look at me, hear me, know me.”
Our first week of working together, she came into the shop that day and started talking about her boyfriend. She told me she had showed him my picture on Facebook. He thought I would be really pretty, if it weren’t for my nose.
This stranger put me on display for an even more distant stranger, someone I had never met and actually would never meet. This stranger decided this was information I should hear or be broken by or be changed by…or have no idea how to respond to.
Ten years later, I don’t remember this girl’s name. I don’t remember where she went or what happened to her, or if we said goodbye or said we would keep in touch. Two things I do remember: she used pureology shampoo, and one day for no apparent reason, she took her chisel and aimed her hammer at my great insecurity, nicking off another tiny piece of my spirit.