Camille wanted a wedding straight out of a magazine. Every little detail had to be perfect, from the decorations to the bridesmaids’ hairstyles. She planned everything down to the eyelashes we were supposed to wear. But just three days before the wedding, she dropped me as a bridesmaid. Why? Because of my haircut. I was heartbroken—but she never expected what came next.
Camille and I had been best friends since college. We met during freshman orientation, and from the very first day, she had this energy that made people gravitate toward her. She was loud, confident, and always the center of attention, while I was quieter, more reserved. But somehow, we just worked.
One night, junior year, we were sitting in my dorm, surrounded by textbooks, when Camille grinned and said, “You have to be my bridesmaid someday.”
I laughed. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
“No bells,” she corrected, wagging a finger. “Only what I approve. It has to be perfect.”
I should have known then what was coming.
Years later, when her boyfriend Jake proposed on a beach in Maui, she called me immediately.
“Ava!” she squealed. “He did it! Jake proposed!”
“Oh my God! Congratulations!” I was genuinely happy for her.
“I want you as my bridesmaid. Say yes!”
“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Perfect! This wedding is going to be magazine-worthy.”
I didn’t realize what that meant until I got my bridesmaid binder. Yes, an actual binder. Inside were pages of instructions: the three different dresses we had to buy, the exact shoes (dyed to match), the approved jewelry, even guidelines on hair and makeup.
“The lavender looks a little different than in the catalog,” I mentioned during a dress fitting.
Camille’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the lighting. The dress is perfect. Just get it tailored.”
I swallowed my concerns about the extra cost and nodded.
That night, the bridesmaids and I met at Leah’s apartment to assemble wedding favors.
“I had to cancel my dentist appointment for this,” Tara whispered, tying ribbons on tiny boxes. “She sent me a calendar invite with a ‘mandatory attendance’ flag.”
Leah snorted. “She asked if I’d considered getting eyelash extensions. I don’t even wear mascara.”
“She means well,” I tried to say, though even I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Megan, the bluntest of us all, sighed. “This is beyond stressed. This is control-freak insanity.”
“She’d do the same for us,” I said weakly.
Megan raised an eyebrow. “Would she, though?”
I wanted to believe she would.
I helped Camille with everything. Co-hosted the bridal shower. Helped plan the bachelorette party. Reworked the seating chart at 1 a.m. I was all in.
Then, my hair started falling out.
At first, I thought it was stress. But by January, I was pulling out clumps in the shower. By February, I had bald spots. My doctor confirmed it was due to a hormone imbalance.
“It’ll take time to grow back,” she said. “Some people find it easier to cut their hair short while it heals.”
I cried all the way home. My hair had always been my best feature—long, thick, dark waves. The same hair Camille had put in her “bridesmaid aesthetic guidelines.”
After weeks of watching it fall out, I made the decision. The stylist was kind, showing me pictures of short cuts that would suit my face shape.
“You have great features,” she said. “A pixie cut will look amazing on you.”
When it was done, I barely recognized myself. It was different. But not terrible. Maybe even… cute.
Two weeks before the wedding, I met Camille for coffee and took off my beanie.
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God! What happened to your hair?”
“I had no choice,” I explained. “It was either this or have bald patches in your wedding photos.”
She squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. We’ll make it work.”
Relief flooded through me. “Thank you.”
One week later, she showed up at my apartment.
“I’ve been thinking about the wedding photos,” she said hesitantly.
“What about them?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m worried your hair will throw off the symmetry.”
I laughed, thinking she was joking. “What?”
“The other bridesmaids have long hair,” she said. “It’s just… not what I planned.”
My stomach sank. “I can style it nicely. There are cute pixie styles—”
She forced a smile. “Sure. We’ll figure something out.”
Three days before the wedding, I got a text: “We need to talk. Check your email.”
I opened my inbox to find a cold message:
“I’ve been very accommodating, but I can’t allow you to disrespect my vision. Since you can no longer fully commit, I need you to step down from the wedding.”
I called her immediately. No answer. I texted: “Are you kicking me out over my hair?”
Twenty minutes later, she replied: “It’s about respecting my vision.”
Something inside me snapped. I sent her an invoice:
Dresses: $450. Shoes: $280. Alterations: $175. Jewelry: $90. Shower costs: $125. Bachelorette planning: $80.
Total: $1,200.
I attached it to an email addressed to both Camille and Jake:
“Since I’ve been removed due to my medical condition, I expect reimbursement.”
The next morning, Jake emailed me: “I had no idea. I’m talking to Camille. This isn’t right.”
Then Leah texted: “Camille told us you quit because you were insecure about your hair. What’s going on?”
I sent her screenshots of Camille’s email and my invoice.
Leah: “Holy cow.”
Hours later, Megan, Leah, and Tara showed up at my apartment, wine bottles in hand.
“We quit,” Megan announced. “All of us.”
“You what?”
“We told her: Pay Ava back, or we walk,” Leah said.
My phone pinged. Payment notification: $1,200 from Camille, with a note: “I hope you’re happy.”
Leah smirked. “Karma’s working overtime.”
Two days later, a package arrived: the lavender dress, still in its packaging. A note from Jake: “Her replacement never arrived. Thought you should have this.”
I texted the girls: “Got the dress back.”
Megan: “Donation bonfire?”
I laughed. But then I had a better idea.
“I’m donating it to an organization that gives formal wear to patients undergoing treatment.”
Heart emojis flooded in.
I lost a friend, but I found out who my real ones were. And sometimes, standing up for yourself costs exactly $1,200. Worth every penny.
