Make Me Famous

by Maud Ventura

I decided to dye my hair blond, like Juliette’s, right as I was beginning to become famous. I was ready for revenge, and not just the hair-related kind.

It wasn’t an accident that the titles of my songs sounded like shades of lipstick or nail polish.

And yet my mother should have known that I didn’t give a damn about statistics. My uncle had been killed in an elevator accident; my great-grandmother had been crushed to death by a drawbridge. Fuck statistics.

I settled in to tweeze my uninjured leg; nothing helped me concentrate like focusing on a single hair. But as I approached my calf, I realized that ever since my laser appointments, I had no more hair to pluck. People often talk about regretting tattoos afterward, but no one ever talks about regretting permanent hair removal.