By Mobashira Islam Fahima
I noticed her hair before I noticed anything else.
Not because it was long or shiny or particularly dramatic—but because it changed like the weather.
When she was happy, she left it open. Just wild and flowing, letting the breeze have its way with it. It made her look softer, freer. Like she trusted the world a little more that day.
When something was wrong—but she was trying to stay in control—she braided it. Three careful strands, woven like a routine, like a quiet way to say, I’m holding it together, even if just barely.
And when she was truly upset, she didn’t even try. She’d pull it into a messy bun, half-falling apart, as if saying, I don’t have the energy to fix this today. Not my hair. Not my mood. Not myself.
No one else seemed to notice these patterns. They talked to her about class assignments, group projects, and movie nights. They saw the smile, the notebooks, the extra highlighters she always carried. But I watched her hair. It spoke first.
One day, in class, she sat right beside me. Her hair was in a loose, half-hearted braid that kept slipping apart. She didn’t fix it. I glanced at her, and she gave me a tired smile.
“I’m exhausted,” she whispered. “Of pretending I’m okay all the time.”
That’s when it clicked. Every neat braid had been a silent scream. Every messy bun a quiet surrender. Every open hair a rare peace she hardly allowed herself to feel.
After that, I stopped asking how she was. I just watched. On the days her hair was a tangled bun, I brought her chocolate or a bad joke. On braid days, I sat beside her in silence. On open-hair days, I let her talk and laugh and shine, without asking why she felt better.
Because now I knew: her hair was more honest than any words could be.
And sometimes, the body speaks when the heart doesn’t know how.