Jo hurried home through the dark shadows of early morning. She wouldn't cry. It was only hair. The wig maker placed in her hand more money than she'd ever had in her life, and she needed the money more than she needed girlish long tresses. Marmee getting safely to Father was more important than anything else.
She was a woman now, grown up enough to part with childhood vanity. The strands she left behind was the hair of a girl, a wild, brave girl who crowned herself in glory. As a woman she could leave her crown behind and still be glorious, for hair was just part of a costume. What was on the inside of her head mattered far more than the outside. Short hair was practical anyway. The plays she liked best were the ones she could be a boy. Now she could pretend full force by really looking the part. Her hair would grow long again before she could ever tire of pretend. Woman or girl, short hair or long, she could be brave.
Her bravery was a front. Alone in the dark, how she would cry.
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As Jo rushed by on the street, a young woman stayed home, well away from the windows so no one could see her. She sat alone on the dark steps, muffling her sobs with the sleeve of her nightgown. Dawn broke cruelly today, and the deep shadows that spurned daylight's reach became her friends. It was better to remain unseen and unheard than to be revealed in this state.
In the bedroom behind her, lumps of hair rested on a pillow, though the sleeper had already risen. Day after day brittle strands broke apart between her fingers. Hanks of hair separated from her scalp under the soft bristles of her brush, and then under their own power when she no longer dared to use the brush further. Bare patches formed across her head like a mange, and spread until the remaining hair became the patches, and spread further still until she had nothing left to shed. Today saw her shedding her first tears as last night saw her shed her last strands.
"Such a beautiful girl, it's vile she should be so robbed. It's my own fault. I was always sickly as a child. I've passed it on to her, I know I have," Her father fretted below, lambasting himself over and over. His words echoed up to her, hollow and uncomforting.
"I shall make it right somehow," The door slammed behind him as he rushed out on a fool's errand.
Whatever her father had in mind, it was pointless. Nothing would make her hair come back. The worst of it was, she knew she was beautiful. Her gracefully arched eyebrows, her delicate nose, her perfect bow lips all formed together into a golden mask. She also knew none of that mattered any more. No one would ever notice her features. They'd all be distracted by her head as bald as an egg. Her fingers strayed to touch above her ear, vainly seeking a patch of hair on her cold, smooth skin. She would never run outdoors and feel the wind comb her hair again. She would never go out, ever. People would only laugh, like they did to clowns on a stage.
She spent her day ducking silently through the shadows, wishing she could become someone else with different problems she could overcome. Instead she was stuck the same, with a problem she couldn't change. She'd have to get used to spending her life in hiding.
Father came home late in the evening, and called for her to join him.
"Come stand in front of the mirror, I have a surprise for you," Father carried something like a hat box, and he smiled at her hopefully.
She would look like humpety-dumpety with a hat on a bald head, and she could hardly pin a hat in place without hair to hold the fastenings. Though she didn't want to see her reflection, she obediently stood where he indicated and waited while he opened the box. What he lifted out wasn't a hat, but a length of wavy locks artfully woven onto a cap. Father lowered the wig onto her head like placing a crown on the brow of royalty.
For a queer moment she didn't see a woman at all. The mirror flickered with images as wisps of hair passed before her eyes. A long-haired lad scampered care-free with his sisters. A Viking goddess strode forth from his place, her hair down her back and her visage as terrible as it was beautiful. The strands of hair settled and parted like a curtain, and she saw herself caught in the light reflecting off the mirror, like she stood on the stage ready to perform some great play.
She was someone more than herself in this hair. She was wild, and brave, and glorious. Even as she stared at her reflection, she was looking at a hint of someone else. A woman had to give up a part of herself before this wig could be made. That woman had given her more than her looks back, she'd given her freedom. It was more than the freedom to go out unmocked, it was the freedom to take on a bit of playfulness, a new identity, even. A little change in appearance could be a transformation. She could be anyone she wanted, even a clown.
As the years went, her hair never grew back, but her concern for it grew less. Playing pretend with her new hair was more fun than vanity had ever been. She had a wig in every colour now, but her first remained her favourite. When she put it on she was alive and special. This hair was her one true beauty.