Lizzie was about to visit the salon for her monthly haircut when she noticed a stack of mail sitting on the dashboard of her flaming-red Ferrari. Normally, she would just disregard it, but she saw a small hot-pink card sticking out-- her favorite color! Ignoring the rest of the various letters, she quickly pulled out the rose-colored one and scanned over it. She rolled her eyes at the words “Donations needed to help support cancer patient! If you can, come visit us at Room B at Central Library.” The advertisers had no right to spam her family just because they lived in the richest neighborhood in town. She set the mail down and put her car keys into the ignition, ready to head over to the salon.

As she stepped into the salon, she headed up to talk to Megan, the receptionist. Megan was also one of Lizzie’s closest friends; they shared common interests and saw each other at the salon almost as often as they went to school.
“Hey Megan!” Lizzie smiled as she strutted through the door.
“O. M. G. Lizzie!” Megan replied, looking up from her Vogue magazine.
They tried to run towards each other into what seemed to be an attempt at a warm embrace-- only their stilettos caused them to walk and Lizzie’s bulky faux fur jacket and Megan’s newly done nails became haphazards as they awkwardly collided into each other.
After gossipping about the latest Hollywood movie, they began to discuss Lizzie’s new hairstyle for the month.
“I think you should try something different. It’s like the trend.” Megan gushed, thinking about the latest celebrity news.
“Oh my gosh, I know right! Like Miley Cyrus!” Lizzie exclaimed, her voice unnecessarily high-pitched.
“Yeah! You should totes get a new style.”
“Yeah! I think I’m gonna go for a bob this time!”
“Alright, awesome! Let me set you up.” She clicked some buttons on a computer and Lizzie was led away by a small Asian hair stylist.
After an hour, Lizzie stopped looking at her iPhone to look at her reflection in the mirror.
“Oh. My. Gosh! I look like a boy!” Lizzie screeched, her jaw line flat and her face flushed with anger.
        “Ma’am, I thought you wanted a short bob with bangs… Is there any way I can fix this?” the timid hair stylist whispered.
        “No-- just get away from me! Do you even know what people will think of me now? Like-- oh my gosh I have to represent my cheer squad looking like a boy! My life is over, and it’s your fault!” Lizzie raged at the sight of the person who had ruined her perfect beach blonde hair.
On her way home, Lizzie parked her Ferrari at the Avalon Boutique. When she came out, she had a new manicure of fall leaves and an enormous bag of beanies, headbands, wigs and extensions.
“Thank goodness it’s fall so I can wear all of these! Like if it was summer, people would think I have no sense of style.” She squealed gleefully to herself as she drove back to her fancy large home.
    She did not even consider the fact that people could recognize her car from a mile away, and consequently, they could see her new haircut very easily.
    Lizzie looked at her Twitter account for the 5th time that hour after arriving home. As she scrolled, she saw a photo that looked strikingly similar to herself—right down to the new short blonde bob with bangs. Lizzie gasped and began to scream when she saw the picture of herself and her chopped-up hair.
“Oh my gosh! Who would post this? How many people saw this!?” She screamed.
Her mom attempted to rush to her side after hearing Lizzie’s shouts, although it took several minutes because she was wearing 7-inch pumps.
“What’s wrong baby?” she asked when she reached Lizzie’s room, out of breath.
“Mom, O.M.G. someone saw my haircut and took a pic and posted it and people probably think I look horrible cause like my hair looks bad and they didn’t even take the picture at the right angle and what is my cheer squad going to think of me now  and just like I bought all those hair accessories for no reason and my life is over!” she yelled at her mom, with mascara-stained tears running down her slim face.
“It’ll be fine honey! You can just tell everyone that you were wearing a wig or that it was a dare or… oh! Yes! Tell them you wanted to get it all cut off because you wanted to donate it!” Her bright red lips turned upward into a smile.
When Lizzie didn’t return the smile, she gave her daughter a questioning look. “You don’t like the idea?” she asked.
“No mom, it’s just that… isn’t that wrong?”
“Oh sweetie, no it’s fine! You should have heard the lies I told when I was your age!” She laughed while reminiscing.
Lizzie hesitated for another second before grinning and joining her mom in celebration.  Everything was going to be okay.
After a few days in school, Lizzie had made sure everyone knew the story she and her had come up with. Every now and then, she would start to feel a little uneasy. When she walked to class, people would stop her and tell her how proud they were of her courage that she had to donate her hair. They would tell her how good a role model she was to them and how they would do the same if they were brave enough. When her teacher hung up a sign for “Locks of Love” on her door just because she had heard of what Lizzie had done, she started to walk around school with her head held a little lower than before.
As Lizzie was checking the mail the next day, she noticed a bright pink card sticking out of the stack. That looks familiar, she told herself as she pulled it out for closer inspection. When she saw the cancer symbol on the front she brought her hand to her head in realization—it was the donation card! Instead of just recycling the card like last time, Lizzie decided to bring it in. If she was going to say that she helped cancer patients, she might as well actually help them out somehow. She could go to their therapy session, get a picture with some cancer patients, post it to Instagram, and leave with a clean conscience.

It was the big day. Lizzie took a deep breath and walked into the therapy group.
When Lizzie saw the bald heads the first thought she had was, Oh my gosh, I feel so bad for them! At least we have bad haircuts in common!
Lizzie took a seat in the circle of wheelchairs and green plastic chairs. She made sure to sit at the chair that was closest to the exit.
She feigned a smile to the Indian girl sitting next to her. Her long, curly black hair fell over her chocolate-colored eyes. She was wearing an Avalon school shirt with ripped jeans. She looked surprisingly normal, until Lizzie noticed the large scar that ran up her arm. She should probably wear long sleeves… Lizzie thought in disgust. She decided to get a picture with her before she left as proof that she was doing a good deed. For now she sat, waiting for the therapy session to begin. After liking around 13 photos on Instagram, she looked up from her phone when she heard the casual conversations die down to a murmur. Clap-clap-pause-clap. Everyone looked up in silence at the short man in front of them.
“Alright guys, I’m glad you’re here today! Whether you’re here because you need support or you are giving support, we welcome you! To those of you who are new, I am Todd, a 24 year-old cancer survivor. I’m working to get my degree in youth ministry.” At this, everyone began to applaud. Feeling self-conscious, Lizzie joined in, even though she didn’t really get what was so great about what he said.
“Today, we’re going to start as always by going around in a circle and stating your name and age. From there, we’ll split into partners and discuss our own struggles or whatever you want to talk about! After that, we’ll get to watch presentations about something we hold dear to ourselves. The regular members have been working on these presentations for several weeks, so please be respectful!” He clapped again and smiled enthusiastically. While everyone went around in a circle to say their names, Lizzie looked at her phone. She had to wait for the Indian girl to nudge her when it was her turn. When it was time to split into partners, Lizzie tapped the girl with the scar on her arm.
“Hey do you want to be, like, partners?” she asked.
“I guess…” the girl shrugged.
“Okay… so what school do you go to?” Lizzie asked, not sure what to talk about. She didn’t even remember her name from the circle activity. Instead of waiting for an answer, she barrelled on, “I go to Avalon High School!”
“Me too,” the girl said quietly.
“Wow. That’s like so cool! Maybe we’ll see each other in the hallways or something!” she gleefully exclaimed, trying to get the girl to like her so she would take a picture with her.
“Yeah, I guess.” she shrugged again, rolling her eyes.
“So… what sport do you play?” Lizzie asked.
“Um… I can’t… physically strain myself.” She whispered. Her sad eyes met the floor.
“Oh no! Why not? Oh… I get it!” Lizzie marveled, proud of herself for making the connection. She didn’t notice the girl had stuffed her hands in her pockets and looked away. Lizzie kept yakking on, holding out her phone case.
“I’m a cheerleader at Avalon! Look, this is my phone case! It has a 17 on it because that’s my cheer number! Do you like it? I mean I do! It’s a little dirty though so I’m probably going to get a new one soon.” She thrust the phone in the girl’s face.
Coughing, the girl quickly turned away.
“Perfume reacts badly with my medicine.” She hacked, wheezing for a few seconds. Lizzie suddenly blushed under her foundation with embarrassment.
“Oh my gosh, my bad! I just love this perfume. I feel so bad for you!” Lizzie looked at the girl with eyes full of “pity”.
The Indian girl inwardly rolled her eyes. Why did I get stuck with this pretentious scoundrel? She thought, In fact, why was this girl even here? Clearly she has no illness. Well, maybe a spoiled-rich brat illness. The Indian girl chuckled at her own thought.
Lizzie looked over at her quizzically. Who was she laughing at? Before she could ask, she heard the familiar clap-clap-pause-clap of Todd’s silencing method. Everyone turned their attention to the front of the room, where a TV sat.
“I’m glad you all are enjoying yourselves. There will be time to get phone numbers after these presentations not to worry! First will be Shakti!” he chimed, his enthusiasm levels high enough to fill the entire Buckingham Palace.
Lizzie looked around the circle of people—who was Shakti? She had no idea. Shrugging, she turned attention back to the front of the room. Todd had set up a small black portable TV. Lizzie once again felt a pang of pity for all these people—did they not have access to a flat screen TV? How miserable their lives must be, she thought.
Todd turned the lights out and the small screen began to show a young, tiny Indian girl doing cartwheels on a front yard. Gentle music was playing in the background. Lizzie noted what good form the girl had. She was not just  doing little-kid cartwheels; she was doing competition-worthy cartwheels. The scene faded to the same girl in a gymnast leotard. She was much older in this scene, and she proceeded to do a cartwheel, front handspring, ariel, and round-off. Lizzie gasped in amazement. During her cheerleading training she had been doing some tumbling as well, but she was nowhere close to as how good the girl in the video was. That scene then faded into one at a hospital. It was the very same girl, but the music had turned to a somber, gray tune that could only entail bad news.
The doctor on the screen looked strikingly similar to the patient. The doctor took the girl’s gymnastics uniform and put it in the trash. The girl left the room crying. The next scene changed to the girl smiling with a large scar running down her arm. Lizzie thought, That looks so familiar! It then hit her that Shakti was the girl she had been partners with! She turned to look at her in a new light.
When the video ended, Shakti stood up and waited for the applause to die down. What she said next made Lizzie want to hide under her chair.
“I want to thank everyone for being here today to view my presentation. I also want to take a moment to thank my parents. They were the ones who gave me my name—Shakti—strength. They were also my doctors. They helped me through my diagnosis of melanoma, otherwise known as skin cancer. I wear my scar proudly. I am thankful for their infinite support at times even when I refused to speak to them because they made me quit gymnastics to protect my body. I would not be alive today if it were not for them.” She wiped a tear from her brown skin and sat down.
Lizzie had never felt so ashamed of herself. Excusing herself from the rest of the presentations, she ran to the bathroom to wipe away the tears that had unconsciously appeared on her face.
I really am a horrible person. She continued to think to herself as she drove home. She had not taken a picture with Shakti not because she had forgotten, but because she felt that she didn’t deserve to.
Lizzie paced uneasily in her room, unable to concentrate on anything. She grabbed her car keys and drove to receive the comfort of her best friend Megan. Unfortunately, Megan’s normal spiel did not have its usual effect.
“Honey, puh-lease! You are a good person. Remember you tipped that one hair stylist a lot?” Megan drawled on, “And there was that one time you bought me that one ring!”
Lizzie raised her eyebrows in a sudden judgemental attitude towards… herself. Soon after Lizzie went home with a sunken feeling. She felt empty. Is this really how I have lived my entire life? She asked in exasperation. That night she cried herself to sleep.

A week later Lizzie decided that she needed to change. She was never going to get rid of the everlasting guilty feeling in the pit of her stomach if she didn’t. She couldn’t concentrate at cheer practice, at school, or even when hanging out with friends.  Shakti would enter her mind-- her scar, her smile, her strength. Lizzie would look at herself with disdain. Something needed to happen.
She took a deep breath as she raised her hand during cheer practice that afternoon. “Coach, I have an idea about working with hospitalized kids. We could reach out to them by...”