She was beautiful. She had a great face, great body, and her hair, goodness gracious, her hair! It was so silky, long, and so absolutely perfect. The entire school knew this. She knew it. Her younger sister did, too.
“I must be a good younger sister,” she would tell herself. But even then, she would occasionally startle herself with some of the especially ill thoughts towards her older sister. It isn’t that she didn’t love her. In fact, her hatred towards her is made that much more ferocious because of her love for her. Soon, though, her mounting jealously would reach a critical mass. They would fight, just as they have done countless times before. They would fight and screech and throw and break until both are emotionally drained. She would apologize first, just as always, and they would make up and, after so much time, repeat this sad cycle. This time, however, they will not fight. This time, as the cancer in her heart was just about ready to burst, she met him.
She was smitten. She must have him, but how? Her sister would have no trouble- that’s it. She knew exactly what she needed to do. She decided that she would grow her hair and take care of it, just as her older sister would. She would make herself beautiful for him and she would win him and finally get some peace of mind after living all these years in the shadow of her ever-so-perfect older sister. Summer break arrived and she stopped cutting her hair. Every day she took painstaking care of it. She would lather a series of expensive, mineral rich shampoos into her scalp, making semi-circular motions with her hands. She would then slowly move down and wash the entire length, all the way to the tips. Every day, it grew a little bit longer. When the Summer finally gave way to Fall, Her hair was long, silky, and startlingly beautiful, radiant even. It was as beautiful, if not more so, than her older sister’s.
School started and she was anxious. “Surely, after everything I’ve done, he will notice me and fall for me in a heartbeat.” The wind was blowing through her hair and the boys were already murmuring. “She … changed! Look at her! Gorgeous!” She pretended to be bashful, looking to the side as the mob of boys made their way towards her. She was about to try and get her crush’s attention when he gently nudged her out of the way and made a beeline for her older sister standing a couple of meters behind her. She had spent the entire Summer slaving over her hair and her sister took the spotlight yet again because sister, the pretty and perfect sister, had to get a pair of fucking glasses.
They have been dating for two weeks now. She has been brooding for two weeks now. This isn’t right, no, no, no, no, not by a long shot. This just won’t do at all. All these years, all that greedy bitch does is take and take and take like the voracious pig-spawn she is. What gives her the right? No, this just will not do at all. This time, she will not take. She will give. She will give me her place in the spotlight. She will give me the boy. She will give me all her stupid pretty clothes. She will give me everything. I’ll kill her. I’ll fucking kill her and when my love- my love, for fuck’s sake, not hers- shows up at the funeral and sees me grieving because my sister committed suicide, then he will comfort me. And then he will love me. And she will be dead, cold and dead, and long gone to a place where only the worms will marvel at her fucking hair before it falls out of her head and shrivels into dust.
Sister, help me study for final exams. Sister, come up to the roof of the school and let’s clear our heads. Sister, why don’t we climb over the fence and sit on the ledge? I love you. Give me a hug, sister. Oh, how I love you. Oh, how the whole world loves you. You landed face up. One of the lens popped out of your glasses. Both of your legs are snapped back at the knees, and it looks kind of like a “W.” And still, you are so beautiful. Even now, you are an angel, and the blood pooling around your head is your halo. Good bye, sister, it is my turn to be happy now.
She is so beautiful. She has a great face, great body, and her hair, goodness gracious, her hair! It is so silky, long, and so absolutely perfect! Did you hear about her sister? I heard she killed herself out of jealousy. I heard she was bitter about her beautiful younger sister and threw herself from the roof of the school. How selfish! How stuck up! An older sister should know better.
She’s been dating him for about a year now. She’s also been lauded the prettiest girl in the whole school for about a year now. In the public light, she fits her role like a glove, and she loves every second of it. She never felt guilt. She was too busy feeling entitled to everything she got to feel guilty. She was a child who had yet to lose interest in a shiny new toy. In many ways, this was the happiest year of her life. However, she started to gradually hate showering more and more, and it only got worse every passing day. She still took a great deal of time and effort in order to maintain her hair, but every minute she spent in the shower, she felt nervous. She felt jittery. It only got worse when she had to close her eyes to rub that expensive shampoo into her hair.
It has been just about a year now and she decided that enough is enough. Why does she need to waste so many hours of her life making her hair perfect? Why does she have to put herself through this anxiety? The reason for her growing her hair out in the first place is probably hairless- if not fleshless- by now, so to hell with it. “You are fucking dead, cold and dead,” she spat. She reached for the kitchen knife and sliced her hair so that it fell just above her shoulders. She felt like a great weight had been lifted from her back. What a relief! For the first time in what felt like ages, she had a panic-free day. She went shopping, had coffee with her boyfriend, and then headed home for a nice, relaxing shower.
She closed her eyes and lathered her hair, rubbing her fingers deep into her scalp. She sighed with relief and slowly, making semi circular motions with each hand, moved down the back of her head. Soon, she was, just like old times, washing the hair that went past her shoulder blades, and just like old times, feeling that dreadful panic spring into her heart. She had cut her hair, she was sure of it. She threw that horrible, frightful, and beautifully silky hair into the trash bin that was taken out and emptied in the morning. Yet, here she was, washing her hair in spite of her growing sense of dread building up in the pit of her stomach. She was shaking hard and felt cold in spite of the warm water. She felt oh-so-cold as if all the blood was flowing out of the back of her head.
Slowly, she looked up.
Her legs were snapped back at the knees and looked kind of like a “W.” No blood pooled around her head, though. It just dripped. It dripped and dripped and plinked and plonked onto little sister’s forehead while she lathered and lathered and lathered her dead sister’s beautiful hair.