I contacted Leah about Camille’s strange conduct during rehearsal that night. Leah’s remark supported my suspicions: Camille had been obsessed.
On things that no one else cared about, compulsively comparing recent images to those from the prior year. Even though I tried to ignore it, a queasy sensation took hold of me.
Then, three days before to the wedding, Camille’s message on my phone buzzed, saying, “We need to talk.” When you can, give me a call. After telling me to read a lengthy, icy email she had written,
She suddenly stopped the conversation when I did. In a stern and clinical email, she declared that I was no longer allowed in her wedding party due.
To my “inconsistency” in living up to her aesthetic standards, despite my health concerns. As I read her last words, my pulse raced, and I instantly responded incredulously,
“Are you really throwing me out because of my HAIR?” There was no place for compromise in her blunt response: it was about upholding her vision at all costs, not simply about my hair.
