Look at her!

Either the stars didn’t quite align or a time to pay some karmic debt had arrived. I wasn’t sure which it was, but a few summers ago there came a day when the simplest things that normally don’t require even a conscious thought, somehow turned to shit.

I woke up with a dull, annoying headache. Breakfast made me painfully bloated. I fucked up my morning coffee, and since I didn’t have time to make another one, the day seemed to be a disaster from the get-go.

I would’ve gladly spent the day lying in bed—not wearing clothes—because anything I put on made me feel like a whale in a net. But I needed to go to town to run some errands that couldn’t be postponed any longer.

I grabbed the loosest dress I could find—a light, long one that didn’t cling to me. My hair refused to stay in any kind of updo—a ponytail was too tight and a bun, which is my regular go-to on hot summer days, made me look like a freaking sumo wrestler—so I wore it down, which I hate doing on hot days because it makes me run even hotter.

The sun was relentless. Pearls of sweat formed on my forehead and at the back of my neck before I could turn the corner. Yet, at the same time, it was windy, swirling up dust from the streets.

I somehow managed to stumble over my own feet while crossing the street, and the label at the back of my dress made me itchy. I felt nasty, sweaty, and swollen, but I pushed forward. I swear to god, even the birds were mocking me—loudly, might I add.

"Mommy, look!"

A kindergarten-aged boy had come to a stop across the quiet street and was pointing his little finger at me.

"Oh, great! I bet my dress is stuck in my underwear and I’ve been walking half naked the entire time and have now given the poor boy a childhood trauma to work through," I thought, as I quickly ran my hand across my butt to check my suspicions.

The mother turned around to see what the boy was pointing at, and before she could say anything, he continued: "Look how beautifully her hair and dress are flying."

"You’re right, dear! It is beautiful."

I smiled and nodded at them.

While the compliment from that little gentleman didn’t magically take away my bloat and overall heaviness, I stopped fighting the wind. I let my dress and my hair fly in the breeze and decided to deal with the dirt and dust later in the shower.

In town, I got everything done twice as fast as I thought, and since I couldn’t stop thinking about coffee, I made my way to one of my favourite cafés.

While I was sipping my beautiful creamy cappuccino, which more than made up the bitter watery stuff from that morning, I noticed an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

She was wearing chic dark sunglasses and had a new hairstyle, wavy and darker than before. The sun made her hair almost sparkly. She walked over when she noticed me waving. I told her that she looked luminous and that her new hairstyle was lovely.

(Only like 9% of me was thinking about my own hair's current situation.)

She sat down and, from behind the glasses, red eyes appeared with a bit of smudged mascara underneath. Before I could ask anything, she said that she’d just come from the hairdresser and that her hair was ruined. She thought that the colour was way too dark and aged her at least 20 years, and that the waves made her look like a 19th-century judge.

Anyone with eyes saw that this was not the case.

The colour complemented her eyes and the waves made her look delicate and feminine, and I told her as much.

She stared at me for a moment as if to make sure I wasn’t making fun of her. I noticed her lower lip fluttering slightly as she forcibly slowed her breathing. Then she burst into tears again and pulled me into a big bear-hug before hurrying on to her next appointment.

I don’t know if the stars had aligned again, but a sense of calm washed over the busy café. I scanned the room to see if anyone else had noticed it, but everyone acted as if nothing had happened.

I took the last sip of my cappuccino and headed home with the light breeze on my sun-kissed skin.