I was a pretty girl. The kind that people hate, the kind people envy. I had the perfect hair, glorious nails, and always had the newest clothing. I was PERFECT. But being perfect always came with a price, my mother would say. You cannot be just perfect, you have to be more.
I was always under the stress of being more than what I was, more than what I wanted to be. I soon started to realize, even though the thought startled me, that I would never truly be accepted by the ones who loved me. I could never be myself.
The pain was probably the worst part, as I cut my hair in front of a large mirror. It hurt because I was finally letting everything go, all the makeup, all the jewelry, all the designer clothing. I watched the girl in the mirror transform from a lovely young girl into a average teenager. I watched the girl's long blond curls fall to the floor at her feet, a small smile of factory on her lips. I don't have to be perfect, I just have to be myself.
The hair was plain, her nails were normal, and she was dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a cotton t-shirt.
She had to face her mother. Her mother's eyes were dim, watery in the lamp light. She frowned, disgusted, and went back to her work as if the girl did not exist.
Joy.
Happiness.
But most of all, Freedom.
What happened at school was the same, but she didn't care. She was happy with her new life. Her new found friends loved her, adored her, but in a softer way.
She had finally found her place in the world, and she shined.