I never thought that ten years of friendship with Camille would end with me standing alone in my living room with a bridesmaid dress I couldn’t wear and reading over a text message that broke up our friendship. But that’s exactly what took place—a haircut.
Let me begin with the beginning.
Camille and I met when we were first years of college. We were paired up in the dorms at random, and within days, we were sharing clothes, secrets, and a hope that one day we could be in each other’s weddings. There was a strong bond between us that didn’t go away after high school. We used to go to breakfast together every Sunday, and when she got engaged to Matt, I was one of the first people she called.
She didn’t just ask me to be her maid of honor. Not at all. Camille told everyone with a personalized puzzle piece inside a sparkling box that said, “I can’t say ‘I do’ without you.” I cried. It moved me. I needed to run.
The wedding was set for May and would take place over three days in a farm with lavender fields and what Camille described as a “whimsical meadow romance” color scheme. Think of silks that flow, scarves with embroidery, flower crowns, and rules. Camille had charts and graphs. Four boards with 800 pins each were hers. She “saw” something that made Marie Antoinette look simple.
I loved her anyway. And I said yes to the engagement party, the wedding shower, and the Palm Springs bachelorette weekend. I paid $450 for a bridesmaid dress that had to be made just for me, as well as $120 for shoes, hair trials, themed pajamas, jewelry that went with them, and even a $75 workshop on making flower crowns.
Everything changed in December.
I began to lose my hair. It began slowly, with a few extra hairs in the shower. But after a month, I had bald spots, split ends, and stress every time I looked at myself in the mirror. After a few trips to the doctor, the diagnosis was made: Telogen effluvium, a disease that causes hair loss due to stress. Even though it wasn’t lasting, it made me feel terrible about my own self-worth.
I cut my hair into a stylish pixie cut in March, even though it was hard for me to hide for weeks. It wasn’t just a matter of taste. It was me taking charge. I was weak and strong at the same time.
It was something Camille saw at lunch the next Sunday. She stopped, blinked, and then said, “Wow.” “That’s… different.”
I told you. I told her everything. We moved on after she nodded and said something like, “Hope the hairdresser could do something with it.”
I thought that.
I got a text message that made my stomach turn a week before the wedding:
“Hey. After our recent talk, I’d like to tell you of the limits I set for myself. I’ve been very flexible, but I can’t let you disrespect my views. I’m not ready to give in to your personal choices, especially since we could have worked together if you had talked to me sooner. Please drop out of the wedding.
That was it. No call. Not sorry. Doesn’t care. It was just a text message split with all the warmth of a business email.
I was shocked and kept reading it over and over, as if the fifth time would suddenly make sense. It wasn’t.
I had spent more than $1,200 and months of hard mental work. I wasn’t going to leave quietly.
That’s why I did what any responsible adult would: I sent her a bill. There was the dress, the shoes, the gifts, and the trip. I wrote down every dollar I had spent and emailed it to her with a note:
I’m sending you a statement for my bridesmaid costs since I won’t be able to make it. I expect to get my money back in 14 days. If I don’t get paid, I might go to small claims court to get my money back.
Crickets.
Not only was Camille making me mad, but I was also mad at myself for caring so much. I thought about going crazy on social media. But something strange happened before I could do anything.
The girls who were there found out.
It began with Olivia, a college friend from Vermont of Camille’s. She called to ask about setting up rides, but I wasn’t going to be at the wedding anymore. I told her about the haircut, the letter, and the bill.
The line was dead silent. Then: “She didn’t.”
In just 24 hours, the story got to Jasmine, Tori, Dana, and even Beth, who will be her sister-in-law in the future. I was shocked to find that they were furious not at me but at her.
“This isn’t what we thought she was doing,” Jasmine texted. “She made it about her stupid photos when you were sick?”
Then the bill came due.
They did it on practice night, the night before the wedding.
They took Camille away one by one and told her they were also leaving. Jasmine didn’t want to put on the dress. Dana left the dinner for the test. Tori told her to move her lavender field out of the way and stopped her. Beth, Camille’s future sister-in-law, told her that if she couldn’t put empathy ahead of looks, then maybe she wasn’t ready to get married after all.
Camille was very angry. In a bunch of texts, she blamed me for “turning everyone against her” and called me selfish, dramatic, and, my favorite, “unsupportive.”
I didn’t answer.
The wedding went on, but there was only one bridesmaid: her cousin, who is 16 years old, who was added at the last minute. I looked at some pictures online. Camille did look lovely, but the balance she was so interested in? Gone. The pictures of the bridal party looked like they were from a high school prom.
A few weeks after everything was over, Olivia started a group chat called “The Real Bridesmaids.” We had drinks together, laughed at how silly everything was, and raised a glass to avoiding a bullet.
I was never paid back. Camille and I never saw each other again.
The better thing I got was a clear picture of who my real friends were and a haircut that made me feel good.
Because I remember the glittery box she gave me months ago, I know she was right about one thing.
I didn’t try to say “I do” to her because I knew I couldn’t.
