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.”