Bare and Unbroken: The Genesis of Change by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Bare and Unbroken: The Genesis of Change

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,132

The hooded dryer hummed low, surrounding Beverly’s head in warm, static heat. She closed her eyes, letting the scents of lye and floral oils transport her, temporarily melting away her tension. Around her, the salon buzzed with laughter—a chorus of women’s voices blending in a melody of gossip and shared dreams. This tiny sanctuary in South Chicago was her haven, a place where she felt invincible.

She opened her eyes and saw Sheila’s reflection behind her. Her stylist grinned mischievously as she worked the dye into Beverly’s roots. “Girl, you got them all wrapped around your finger, don’t you? You better get that promotion, looking this good,” Sheila teased.

Beverly smirked, raising a brow. “I don’t do ‘half-done,’” she replied, watching her own reflection—every strand of sleek black hair meticulously framing her face. Her look was carefully chosen: polished, powerful, and dignified. It was her armor.

But under that armor, a faint prickle at her scalp had been growing stronger. The tingling had started as a minor irritation, easily brushed off. As Sheila’s hands worked over her head, the sensation turned sharper, a sting just beneath the surface. Beverly pressed her lips together, chalking it up to stress or perhaps a slight reaction to the chemicals.

Later, in her own bathroom, she combed through her hair meticulously, searching for flaws. That’s when she noticed it—a bare patch, soft and pale, hidden just behind her left ear. She froze, the comb hovering in midair. For a moment, she held her breath, her gaze transfixed by that small, vulnerable spot. But Beverly dismissed it, shrugging it off as a minor irritation. She was in control; she always was.

In the following weeks, Beverly’s health unraveled. The headaches were no longer whispers; they became brutal, pulsing waves that took her breath away. At night, nausea clawed its way up, leaving her sweating in the dark. She found herself handling her hair with caution, each brushstroke a reminder of the sensitivity crawling across her scalp. She noticed more bare patches, like tiny scars hidden under her once-flawless hair.

Finally, after a dizzy spell left her gripping her desk, Beverly found herself sitting in the doctor’s office, the smell of antiseptic a sharp, biting contrast to the familiar scents of the salon. She watched her doctor’s face tighten as she scanned the clipboard, her gaze softened by sympathy.

“Beverly,” her doctor began gently, “we’ve detected signs of skin cancer—likely linked to prolonged chemical exposure from the relaxer treatments and dyes. There’s also evidence of early-stage uterine cancer.”

The words crashed over her, leaving Beverly feeling as if the ground had opened beneath her. She clutched the armrests, her nails digging in, the room spinning. She could still smell the chemicals, feel the heat of the dryer, hear the buzzing laughter of the salon. But now, all of it felt tainted, like a betrayal woven into the fabric of her life.

At home, Beverly stood in the dark, hands trembling as she wrapped a scarf tightly around her scalp, almost as if shielding herself from the enemy within. She wandered aimlessly, her fingers tracing the edges of framed photos on her shelves—her mother, her grandmother, women who had endured, who had survived on grit and resilience. But this? This felt different. She had prided herself on strength, but her very body had turned against her. She shied away from mirrors, hiding her once-cherished hair, now reduced to thinning whispers and fragile strands she dared not touch.

Then came chemotherapy.

Beverly dreaded her first treatment. The sterile clinic lights, the chemical drip that wormed its way into her veins, left her feeling hollowed. The treatments picked away at her strength; nausea clawed up from her stomach, her bones ached, and her hair fell out in handfuls, slipping through her fingers like broken promises. Each strand felt like a piece of herself, an identity unraveled and left in fragments. As weeks turned into months, the illness took more from her, stripping her down to a shadow of the woman she once saw in the mirror.

Beverly’s transformation was gradual, each loss forcing her to confront what remained. Her skin had paled, her body had weakened, and her scalp was bare—a blank canvas staring back at her. One rainy afternoon, after yet another grueling session, she found herself standing before the bathroom mirror. Her fingers traced the surface of her bare scalp, smooth yet oddly comforting in its vulnerability.

She drew in a deep breath, staring at her reflection with unflinching honesty. This was Beverly—not a polished version or an ideal, but the bare truth, stripped of every tactic she had worn as armor. In that moment, she realized she could still be strong—different, but strong.

The next day, Beverly returned to Sheila’s salon, though the familiar laughter and chatter made her chest tighten. The salon grew quiet as she entered, her scarf tied tightly around her scalp. She caught Sheila’s eye, nodding firmly as she sat in the chair.

“Cut it all off,” she said, her voice unwavering. “I want to see myself.”

Sheila hesitated, but after a moment, she lifted the clippers. As the buzz filled the air, Beverly watched her last remnants of hair fall, drifting away in gentle wisps. Her fingers reached up, grazing her scalp, now smooth and bare. She was vulnerable, stripped of everything she had once held dear—but also liberated, her reflection raw and unfiltered.

People around her began to notice the change. Friends, family, and even strangers saw the quiet power in her gaze, the grace with which she carried herself. Beverly found beauty in her basic state, in the honesty that radiated from her presence, no longer bound by the constraint of her former image. And with that, she found a new purpose.

She became an advocate, educating others—especially Black women—about the potential risks hidden in everyday beauty products, the dangers that many overlook in the pursuit of an ideal. She spoke at community centers, support groups, sharing her story with a voice clear and unwavering. She watched the understanding in their eyes, the way her vulnerability bridged a gap, offering a place for others to share their own hidden fears.

Beverly’s journey taught her that beauty was not the perfection she had once chased but the courage to stand bare, unshielded, and proud. She was no longer just surviving but thriving, rooted in a quiet strength that went deeper than her appearance. In the end, Beverly had reclaimed herself—her story woven from scars and misinformation, no longer tied to the reflection she had once constructed but to the fire that burned within her. She was a warrior, grounded in the truth of her journey, her courage radiating from within.