One


When I was born, I looked like a tiny chimp: two-inch bouffant, hairy shoulders and a face furry enough to scare any midwife. Sometimes I feel like not much has changed.

"What if it's hypertrichosis?" I ask over my mom's shoulder while an angry wok spits at her.

"Hyper-what?"

"Trichosis!" I shout over the roaring hood fan. "Werewolf Syndrome!"

Mom flicks off the fan. "Oh, not this again. You're exaggerating, Evia!"

"I'm not." I thrust the side of my face in her direction and stroke my cheek. "My sideburns are definitely getting worse!" As for my eyebrows, they're like tectonic plates. If I didn't pluck them, there'd be a natural disaster. On. My. Face.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Fluff." Mom whips a bowl of stir-fry onto my place mat, then folds herself neatly into the chair opposite to watch me eat. She'll have hers later, after her class. "I assure you," she says, "you are not turning into a werewolf. You're just . . . at the hairier end of the spectrum."

Great. So there's a Spectrum of Female Body Hair and I'm at the wrong end. Thank you, Mother, and thank you, Destiny!

I stab a squeaky chunk of Halloumi with my fork, then ram it into my mouth. Pah!

It's my dad's fault. He was Greek and he was hairy. And that's all my mom has told me about him. He was Greek and he happened to be working on one of the islands where my mom--in her late thirties--was backpacking. They hooked up for one night, my mom returned to the good old US of A and hey presto, nine months later I was born!

Issues I have with this little episode include:


1. MINOR ISSUE: The fact my mom went backpacking in her late thirties. Hands up if that shouts "midlife crisis" to you, too?!

2. SLIGHTLY BIGGER ISSUE: The fact that I resulted from a one-night stand. Not exactly the loving scenario you'd hope for, is it? My mother confessed to this when I was eleven.

3. BIG ISSUE: The fact she named me after that Greek island, as if I'd grow up to appreciate nothing more than being reminded ON A DAILY BASIS of the exact location of my conception. Every time someone shouts "Evia!" it's like a big, disgusting reminder that my mom had sex.

4. GIANT ISSUE: Not knowing my father AT ALL. One day I will track him down. My best friend, Frankie, has promised to help me. We're just not sure how or where to start. . . .


"Anyway," Mom starts up again, "you shouldn't be embarrassed about having body hair. It's completely natural. I've told you before: the only reason women remove it is because they think men want them to."

"And because they want to feel beautiful," I add.

"Yes--because society has conditioned us to believe that body hair is ugly! Women naturally grow hair in all the same places as men, but men get to flaunt it while women are led to believe that they must be hair-free. It's totally wrong, Fluff!"

Argh! There it is again! Seriously. Shouldn't my mother have realized by now that reminding her daughter of her furriness several times a day might not be entirely sensitive? "Fluff" has been her nickname for me since I was born--for obvious reasons--and lately it's felt more accurate than ever. I tell you: puberty does cruel, cruel things to a girl.

Anyway, every time she calls me Fluff it makes me want to annoy my Mom right back, so I've started calling her Antonia. Or Antonia Birtwhistle in full if I really want to annoy her. You'd think, what with her being a yoga-teaching liberal, that she'd be one of those super-cool parents who likes being called by their first name. She's not.

My mom claims she's a New Age Feminist, whatever that means. Mostly it means that she hasn't lifted a razor in nearly five years. It also means that when her legs are out, I dread a trip to Aldi in case we get stuck in the fruit-and-veggie aisle while a friendly toddler clings to her shin, stroking it. Her knees are just the right height for a two-year-old to mistake her for a golden retriever.

Mom narrows her eyes at me. "Does this sudden preoccupation with hair have something to do with Frankie?"

"What? No!"

"Well. Maybe you should think yourself lucky. You have nothing to worry about compared with that poor girl."

I swallow my mouthful. "Hang on--weren't you literally just saying how natural body hair is? And now you're describing my best friend as 'poor' because she has so much?"

Mom opens her mouth, then closes it again. Ha! I love calling her out on stuff like this.

I eat the rest of my dinner in silence, mostly because she's right. "That poor girl" is my best friend and has been since we first met at eight years old. Frankie used to be this superconfident, hugely talented singer who loved nothing more than persuading me to put on a show with her in her front room, with her family as our audience. But thinking about it, I can't remember the last time we did that. The thought of standing up to sing in front of anyone now--even her own family--would be Frankie's idea of hell.

It's all because of this condition she has called polycystic ovary syndrome, or PCOS. I've since learned that a lot of women have it, and one of the main symptoms is excess body hair. In sixth grade, Frankie had sideburns. In seventh grade, her chin started sprouting hair and, by eighth grade, she was able to grow a beard. Don't get me wrong, the ability to grow a beard is great if you're in a hipster folk band. But when you're a fifteen-year-old girl and you have a five o'clock shadow by the end of the school day, it truly sucks.

I scrape a couple of limp, brown bean sprouts into the compost bin and slide my plate into our tiny dishwasher before retreating to my room.


Later, after the front door bangs closed behind my mom, I head downstairs and pluck the tub of Halo Top ice cream from the freezer, escorting it triumphantly to the living room. Feet up on the sofa, I flick on the TV and reach for my phone. If this is a preview of what it's like to live alone, I CANNOT WAIT.

I tap open Instagram and start scrolling, scanning for anything newsworthy. There's Adam Johnson showing off his latest tat; Shania Kaminski posting another terrible makeup tutorial; some celeb flashing a blingy engagement ring over her fiancé's shoulder. Getting engaged seems so far off to me that I can't imagine what that feels like. I don't even have a boyfriend yet, just a vague notion that it's something I might have one day--when I have secured some vital intel on HOW to get one.

Swiping through the stories, I suddenly see Madison Cox's face grinning out at me from a fluorescent circle. I should unfollow her; just a glimpse of her glowing orange face is enough to make me shudder. But I began following her one day out of pure boredom and curiosity--apparently her parents are megarich doctors and they live in a mansion--and now I feel like if I unfollow her, she might notice. . . .

I should scroll past, ignore that nagging temptation. But somewhere at the helm of my brain, an overriding voice tells me I need to watch this. My fingertip reacts and before I know it, the video is playing. It's not live but it's recent, having already received 149 views and the reactions still coming. Laughing-face emojis and approving thumbs-up drift across the screen like wayward helium balloons.

The video opens with Madison straddling the doorway of a room, the top button of her school blouse undone, tie discarded, and yellow, strawlike hair tugged forward over her shoulders. My heart implodes to the size of a bullet and fires itself at my rib cage. Because I recognize the black Victorian fireplace in the background. Above it is David Bowie's face with his Ziggy Stardust lightning bolt, and on the mantelpiece is the beaded frame I gave Frankie for her tenth birthday. Inside is a picture of us in our pj's, taken on my first Smith family camping trip. To the right of the fireplace is Frankie's desk, and sitting at that desk, back to the camera, is Frankie.

My bullet-sized heart plummets.

"Why hello, Frankie Smith!" greets Madison, and as she steps into the room, it becomes clear that--despite being the one to post the video--she's not the one holding the camera.

"Come on in, girls!" Madison croons, and the camera moves forward. Aliyah Dobson, Madison's right-hand woman, comes into the shot, parking herself on Frankie's bed, not politely on the edge, but plonk in the middle of it.

"Over here, Pix." Madison gestures, and the camera glides toward the desk. So that's who's filming: Pixie Perkins--a robust girl in our year who takes great pride in single-handedly running the black market at school. If you're craving chips or can't get through physics without a Twix, Pixie's your girl.

"Whatcha up to, Fran-kay?" Madison sneers, peering over Frankie's shoulder. Frankie's already snapped the scrapbook shut but it's too late. Madison wrenches the prized possession from Frankie's grasp and starts skimming through the pages. Each spread is about one of Frankie's favorite movies--she wants to be a film critic one day.

"Whoa-ho-ho!" Madison crows. "What do we have here?!" She holds open the scrapbook for the camera to see. It's the Avengers spread, featuring a huge cutout of Thor, surrounded by confetti hearts and cupid-themed doodles. I'm more of a Tom Holland fan, but Chris Hemsworth is Frankie's dream man.

"As if you'd stand a chance with a hottie like Hemsworth!" Madison mocks, pulling out the page and ripping it up.

"No!" Frankie spins her chair to face the camera and dives to the carpet to retrieve the torn fragments. Meanwhile, Cox slams the book shut and tosses it to long-armed Aliyah.

"Hey, Fran-kay! How about we make you look nice for Mr. Thor?" Madison signals to Pixie, who passes her a black tote bag with her nonfilming hand. My stomach churns. What's in there? Makeup?

I shut down the video and immediately call Frankie.

"I'm coming, Franks," I say to her voicemail. "I'll be there really, really soon. . . ."

The thought of Madison Cox and Aliyah Dobson in MY house makes me feel queasy. But seeing them in Frankie's house? In Frankie's BEDROOM?! It's a thousand times worse. Frankie said if they came to watch the prom night prep, she'd stay out of their way; said she'd be fine. They must've slipped out of the kitchen without Frankie's mom noticing. . . .

Head swirling, I lurch for the hallway and shove my feet in some sneakers. Then I start running.

You idiot, Evia. You should have known something was going to happen.


Two


The early-May sunshine flickers through the cherry blossoms, throwing speckled light onto the pavement. It's pretty, I think, racing through it, but it's not enough to take away my nausea. It's senior prom night. Right now, Frankie's house will be full of older girls. Frankie's mom, Louise, is a hairdresser and it's become school tradition that every year, on the afternoon of the prom, dozens of senior girls head to Frankie's house to get their hair done on the cheap.

This year, Tallulah Dobson will get priority over most because (a) the Dobsons live two doors down from the Smiths, and (b) Tallulah's mom is one of Louise's best friends. So if Tallulah's there for her updo, you can bet your favorite panties that younger sister Aliyah will be there to watch. And if Aliyah's there, Madison is going to be there too. Louise will be so busy, she won't have a clue what's going on upstairs.

When I reach their redbrick town house, the Smiths' front door is slightly ajar. I push it the rest of the way and step into a warm coconut-scented haze. On the other side of the haze, I find Louise, standing behind a kitchen chair, curling iron in hand. It's just past six p.m. and there are only two girls left: one in the chair and one at the Smiths' kitchen table. They take turns glancing surreptitiously at the wall clock.

"Hi," I say nervously.

The girls look up but say nothing.

"Oh, hi, love!" Louise smiles at me before unfurling a perfect chestnut spiral from the iron and gathering up the next tress.

"Have you seen Frankie?" I ask, my throat constricting.

"Up in her room. It's been total chaos down here!"

"Can I go up?"

"Of course, Evia, love. Help yourself if you want a drink." Louise nods to a laminate worktop strewn with half-empty glasses, sparkling cider and a startling rainbow of juice and soda bottles.

I head back through the mist of hair products and up the stripy carpeted staircase. Halfway up, my hand finds the dent in the banister where I once crashed--and broke--a remote control helicopter belonging to Frankie's brother, Jake. He was thirteen and didn't talk to me for weeks. I was ten and heartbroken.

At the top of the stairs, it's eerily quiet. The door to Frankie's room is closed and I pause outside, my feet heavy. I knock so gently I can hardly hear it, so I knock again.

When she doesn't answer, I turn the handle and step in.

I don't see Frankie at first--she's not at her desk. But I notice something lying in the middle of the taupe carpet: long ribbons of black hair right in front of my feet, hair that was once a lighter brown than mine but is now dyed raven black, hair that she and I have brushed and crimped and straightened more times than I can remember.

Wheeling ninety degrees I see her, face down on the bed, head tucked into her arms. And that's when everything turns to water, blurry and spiraling, as if we're being washed down a giant drain. It's just me and Frankie falling, falling, while the bedroom swirls around us.

I close my eyes and wait for the swirling to stop. Slowly, the water subsides and the bedroom comes back. Carefully--ever so carefully--I step over the hair and sit next to her, taking up as little of the single bed as I can manage. I rest a hand on her shoulder blade.

"Frankie? It's me. . . ."

She turns her head and that's when I see it.

Frankie's had the same hairstyle since middle school: long and thick, parted on the side, with a heavy curtain that hangs over her face when she wants to hide, which is most of the time. Only now she can't hide because her curtain is totally gone. It's been hacked at, leaving uneven clumps sticking out over half of her scalp. The other half of her hair hangs down over her shoulder, untouched.

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Excerpted from Love Is in the Hair by Gemma Cary
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.