My best friend dreamed of a magazine-perfect wedding, down to the smallest detail. She controlled every detail, right down to her bridesmaids’ eyelashes. But three days before the wedding, she dumped me, saying that my new hairstyle didn’t ‘fit’ her concept. I was shocked, but no one knew what would happen next… not even her.
Camila and I met in our first year of college. She was bright and outgoing, the kind of person who attracts attention without even trying. I was more reserved, but we complemented each other.
‘You have to be one of my bridesmaids,’ she said one night, lying on the floor of my dorm room, surrounded by textbooks. ‘My wedding is going to be incredible. Just wait.’
I laughed. ‘I’ll be there with bells on!’
‘No bells!’ she corrected me seriously. ‘Only what I approve. Everything has to be perfect.’
I should have recognised the warning signs then.
Ten years later, when her boyfriend Jake proposed to her on the beach in Macae, I was the first person she called.
‘Ava!’ her voice sounded excited over the phone. ‘He did it! Jake proposed to me!’
‘My God, Camilla! Congratulations!’ I exclaimed, genuinely happy for her.
“I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. Please say yes!”
‘Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’
‘Great! I’ve already started a wish board. This wedding is going to be like something out of a magazine.’
Over the next year, Camilla’s ‘vision’ became our shared burden. Each of the bride’s friends received a folder with expectations, schedules, and approved styles.
We needed three specific dresses for different events, shoes painted in exactly the same colour, and jewellery from the approved collection.
‘The lavender looks a little different than it does in the catalogue,’ I remarked during the fitting, pinching the excess fabric at the waist.
Camila’s eyes narrowed as she tried on her shoes. ‘It’s the lighting here. The dress is perfect. Just adjust it to fit your figure.’
I nodded, hiding my doubts about the additional expense.
Later that evening, my friends and I gathered at Leah’s flat to assemble gift boxes for the guests.
‘I had to cancel my dentist appointment to come here,’ Tara whispered, carefully tying the ribbons. ‘She even sent me a calendar invitation with a mandatory attendance flag.’
Leah snorted. ‘Yesterday she texted me and asked if I would consider getting eyelash extensions for the wedding. I don’t even have eyelash extensions.’
‘She means well,’ I said, though my words sounded hollow even to my own ears. ‘She’s just stressed.’
‘No,’ said Megan, the most outspoken of our group. ‘It’s not just stress anymore. It’s territorial controller behaviour.’
I changed the subject. Despite all this, Camilla was still my friend.
‘She would do the same for us,’ I said.
Megan raised an eyebrow. ‘Would she?’
‘Of course!’
I was fully committed. I co-organised Camilla’s hen party, helped review the wedding guest list, and once even stayed up until one in the morning to rewrite the seating plan.
But in December, I noticed that there was more hair than usual in the drain. By January, it was falling out at an alarming rate when I brushed my hair. By February, the bald spots were impossible to hide.
My doctor’s face was serious when she looked at my test results. “This is due to a hormonal imbalance. Medication should help, but it will take time.”
‘What about my hair?’
‘It may continue to fall out before it improves. Some patients find it easier to cut their hair short until the situation stabilises.’
I cried on the way home.
My hair had always been my pride and joy — long, thick, dark waves that fell to the middle of my back. It was the very hair that Camilla had specifically mentioned in her ‘aesthetic guidelines for bridesmaids.’
After several weeks of watching my hair continue to fall out, I made a decision. The stylist was kind, showing me photos of stylish pixie cuts that might suit my face shape.
‘You have the perfect features for a short cut,’ she encouraged me. ‘It will look amazing.’
When the haircut was done, I looked at my reflection, touching the short strands that barely covered my ears. It was different and dramatic. But not terrible. Maybe even cute.
Two weeks before the wedding, I invited Camilla over for coffee.
‘I need to show you something,’ I said, taking off my hat.
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God! What happened to your hair?’
‘I know, it’s a change…’
‘Ava, what the hell…? It’s so short!’
‘It was either this or bald patches at your wedding,’ I explained, telling her about my diagnosis.
She was silent for a long time. Then she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. We’ll get through this.”
For a moment, I felt better. ‘Thank you for understanding.’
‘Of course,’ she smiled, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘What else are friends for?’
A week later, Camilla came to see me unannounced.
‘I was nearby,’ she said, standing awkwardly in the doorway. Her gaze kept wandering to my hair.
‘Come in,’ I offered. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No, I can’t stay. I was just… thinking about the wedding photos.’
‘What about them?’
‘I’m just worried that your hair will ruin the symmetry in the photos.’
I laughed, thinking she was joking. ‘What?’
‘The symmetry. All the other girls have long hair that can be styled the same way,’ she said, her voice tense. ‘It’s just… not what I planned.’
‘I can style it nicely,’ I assured her. ‘There are lots of cute ways to style a pixie cut.’
She nodded, a tense smile appearing on her face. ‘Of course. We’ll figure something out.’
When she left, I felt a knot in my stomach. Something wasn’t right.
That evening, I wrote to Lie: ‘Did Camilla seem strange at rehearsal?’
‘She kept showing the photographer our bridesmaids’ photos from last year. Why?’ came the reply.
‘She came to me today, worried that my hair would “break the symmetry” in the photos.’
Leah: ‘You’re kidding! It’s just hair!’
‘That’s what I said.’
Leah: ‘Your pixie cut is cute. She needs to stop being so stuck up.’
I put my phone away, trying to ignore my growing anxiety.
Three days before the wedding, my phone vibrated: a message from Camilla:
‘We need to talk. Call me when you can.’
I called her right away.
‘Hi, what’s wrong?’
‘I sent you a letter,’ she said, her voice strangely formal. ‘Please read it and let me know what you think.’
Before I could respond, she hung up.
With trembling hands, I opened the letter. There it was… a long, cold paragraph:
“After our recent conversations, I want to remind you of my boundaries. I have been very tolerant, but I cannot allow you to disrespect my vision. My wedding is something I have dreamed of for many years. I have put a lot of effort into the photos and memories, and your inconsistency bothers me. I sympathise with your health issues, but I am not prepared to compromise. Since you can no longer fully commit to this, I need you to step down from the wedding party.”
My heart began to race. Step down? Three days before the wedding? After everything we’ve been through?
I read it again, and my disbelief turned to anger. I called her back, but she didn’t answer.
I wrote a message: ‘Are you seriously excluding me from your wedding because of MY HAIR?’
Twenty minutes later, her reply came: ‘It’s not just about the hair. It’s about respecting my vision. I’m sorry if you don’t understand that.’
That’s when something inside me broke.
I made a detailed list. Three dresses: £450. Shoes: £280. Fittings: £175. Jewellery: £90. Bridal shower contribution: £125. Bridal shower organisation: £80.
Total: £1,200.
I attached it to a letter addressed to Camilla and Jake:
“Since I was excluded from the wedding party because of my condition, which affects my appearance, I need to be reimbursed for these expenses. One dress is still at your house… You can keep it or return it, but payment is expected either way.
Wishing you both all the best,
Ava.”
I pressed ‘send’ and then blocked Camilla’s number.
The next morning, I woke up to a message from Jake:
‘Ava, I didn’t know this had happened. I’ll talk to Camilla. This isn’t right.’
I didn’t reply. What could I say?
That afternoon, my phone lit up with a message from a number I didn’t recognise.
‘Ava, it’s Leah, I’m texting from Megan’s phone. Are you okay? Camilla told us you left because you didn’t like your hair. What’s really going on?’
I sent her screenshots of Camilla’s letter and my bill.
‘Wow…’ came the reply. ‘That’s cold-blooded.’
‘Wait!’ Leah wrote an hour later. ‘We’re sorting this out.’
The next day, the doorbell rang. It was Megan, Leah, and Tara with bottles of wine and determined expressions on their faces.
‘We’re leaving,’ Megan announced as she walked into the flat.
‘What?’ I gasped.
‘We all sent her the same message,’ Leah explained as she opened a bottle. ‘Give Ava her money back, or we’re leaving too.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I said, feeling a lump in my throat.
‘We should have,’ Tara said firmly. ‘What she did was cruel. And honestly, we’re all tired of her wedding drama.’
‘Jake called me,’ Megan added, handing me a glass. ‘He’s horrified. He said he didn’t know you’d spent so much or that Camilla was fixated on your hair.’
‘What did she say?’ I asked.
Leah snorted. ‘According to Tara’s cousin, who does the flowers, she had a complete meltdown. Screaming, crying, the whole shebang.’
‘I don’t want to ruin her wedding.’
‘You won’t,’ Megan replied with a shrug. ‘She ruined it herself.’
My phone beeped with a payment notification. £1,200 from Camilla with a note attached:
“I hope you feel better now. You made this much harder than it needed to be.”
I showed it to the others, and they burst into applause.
‘Don’t reply,’ Tara advised. ‘That’s exactly what she wants.’
I nodded, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders. ‘What now?’
Leah smiled maliciously. ‘Now we’ll drink this wine, and I’ll tell you how we’re going to ruin that silly staged entrance she made us work on.’
Two days after the wedding, a package arrived at my door. Inside was the lavender dress, still in its original packaging with the tags on.
There was a note from Jake inside: ‘The replacement dress for your friend didn’t arrive. I think you should take this back. Sorry about everything.’
I wrote to the girls in our usual chat group, the one without Camilla.
‘The dress is back. Apparently, the emergency replacement never arrived.’
Megan was the first to reply: ‘Karma is in full swing!’
Leah: ‘You should have seen her at the wedding. Half of us were late, no one danced properly, and her mum kept asking where you were.’
Tara: ‘She said you had a “personal emergency”. I made sure to tell everyone the truth. You should have seen her face… it was epic!’
I smiled as I looked at the dress. I used to imagine wearing it alongside my friend on her special day. Now it symbolised something else: the price I paid for standing up for myself.
‘What should I do with the dress?’ I wrote.
Megan’s reply came immediately: ‘Fire at the cottage with donations. Saturday. Bring marshmallows.’
I laughed out loud, then paused, struck by a better idea.
‘Actually… I think I’ll donate it to an organisation that provides formal wear to patients undergoing treatment. My doctor mentioned it.’
The responses poured in instantly, with hearts, applause, and enthusiastic approval.
Laughing, I realised something important: I hadn’t just lost a friend. I had discovered who my real friends were. And even with a new haircut and an empty bank account, I felt more like myself than I had in months.
Sometimes the most beautiful moments come after the ones that destroy you. Sometimes standing up for yourself is worth £1,200. And sometimes karma doesn’t need your help… it just needs you to step back and let it work its magic.
Turns out, it’s worth every penny!
