On the screen was a photograph of a little girl.
She looked about six or seven years old.
She was sitting in what appeared to be a hospital room.
Her head was almost completely bald.
I looked at Linda.
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Sophie.”
I stared at the photograph.
“She’s one of the children Emily met through a school charity program.”
Linda continued.
“Sophie has cancer. She’s undergoing chemotherapy. Emily met her during a fundraising event several months ago.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“What does this have to do with Emily’s hair?”
Linda took another shaky breath.
“Everything.”
She explained that Emily had become deeply affected by Sophie’s story.
The little girl had lost her hair during treatment.
Emily had gone home that night and apparently couldn’t stop thinking about her.
She began researching children’s charities and organizations that accepted donated hair for wigs.
Then she made a decision.
She wanted to grow her hair long enough to donate it.
Her hair had become something she could give to someone who needed it.
“But why didn’t she tell me?” I asked.
Linda looked at me sadly.
“She was afraid you’d say no.”
I felt tears burn my eyes.
“Why would she think that?”
“Because she knew how much you loved her hair.”
That sentence broke something inside me.
I thought about every Sunday evening.
Every time I had brushed her hair.
Every time I’d told her how beautiful it was.
I had thought I was celebrating something she loved.
But perhaps Emily had heard something completely different.
Maybe she thought her hair mattered more to me than the person she wanted to become.
Linda continued.
“Today, she finally decided she was ready.”
“She asked me to take her to the salon.”
“She told me she wanted to donate as much hair as possible.”
I covered my mouth.
“And the pixie cut?”
Linda nodded.
