My wig. My weave. The only thing that made me feel comfortable in my own skin. Gone in the snap of a finger. I was sitting on a park bench, the same one on which I am writing this dreadful tale. I was drinking my mocha lattecino and browsing my Instagram. I figured I should take a few selfies to show off how gorgeous I looked to all of my followers. I took a bunch and reviewed them. Not a single one depicted my glamour to its full potential. I went back to the camera to take more, only to discover that my beloved was no longer on my head.
I looked in every direction, trying to find the bitch who ripped it from me. I spotted her, standing against a tree about 200 feet away. The little whore was looking directly into my eyes with a smug grin on her face, my wig illuminating atop her head.
I blinked. As soon as I opened my eyes, she was gone, a Houdini-esque disappearance.
I bawled on that bench for hours. That wig was the only thing I had in my life and I let it slip through my fingers. I should've nurtured it. Protected it. But I was a fool.
What pains me the most, however, is that it looked better on her.
I don't know where my wig or its thief are now. All I can do now is cherish the memories I had with that wig in our short time together. Those are the only things that will last forever.
