For a second, real shock crossed his face — not only at how I looked, but at the cold composure coming off me in waves.

I had thought carefully about the hair.

Some part of me had wanted to hide it — to wear a wig, to grow it back in private, to erase what Blair had done before I let the world see me again.

But I understood, getting ready that morning, that hiding it would have handed her the victory.

She had cut my hair to shame me; to conceal the aftermath would have been to agree that there was something to be ashamed of.

So instead I did the opposite.