Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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When I was 19, I made a friend in Abu Dhabi whose memory would come to inspire me many years later, long after we had lost touch and life had carried us to different continents.
By then, I had been living with androgenetic alopecia, a form of hair loss, for nearly eight years. I began losing my hair shortly after puberty, at an age when most girls were becoming more aware of their appearance and learning to feel at home in it.
Instead, I became preoccupied with hiding a condition I could neither control nor fully explain. Hair occupied a disproportionate amount of space in my thoughts, and like many insecurities carried through adolescence, it often distorted how I saw myself.
Why would anyone want to stare at a piece of art for three hours? You’d be surprised
My friend had incredibly thick hair, cut into a chic, short style that seemed effortless. One day, I confided in her about my condition and how much it affected my confidence. I do not think she fully understood the nature of what I was experiencing, but she responded with simplicity and warmth.
“I just backcomb my hair,” she said. “You should do the same.”
The next time she visited my house, I asked if she could show me how. Patiently, she taught me how to brush and backcomb my hair to create as much volume as possible. But when I looked in the mirror, I felt disappointed. No matter what I did, my hair was still much finer than hers.
She noticed my change in mood immediately.
“Maha,” she said, “Do you know how much I secretly envy you for your beautiful eyes, your nose ... ? If I could trade places with you, I would do it in a heartbeat.”
Her words caught me completely off guard. At the time, I was consumed by what I lacked. My attention had narrowed so completely around one perceived deficiency that I struggled to imagine anyone looking at me and seeing something to admire. Yet there she was, envying qualities I had never thought twice about.
In that moment, she made me feel better about a genetic condition I did not choose and could not alter. My condition was not the result of anything I was doing or failing to do. It simply was. That’s how genetics sometimes unfold.
Years later, however, I came to understand that the most important thing she gave me that day was not reassurance about my appearance. She gave me a glimpse of how differently two people can experience the same reality.
When I gave up using gel nails, I let go of impossible beauty standards
Insecurity has a way of narrowing our vision. We become so fixated on what we lack that we stop seeing ourselves clearly. We assume that the qualities we envy in others are the same qualities they value most in themselves. Often, neither assumption is true.
At 19, I envied my friend’s hair. I saw confidence, beauty and ease. What I could not yet see was the quality that made her truly remarkable: her way of moving through the world with generosity rather than comparison. She might not have felt like she met the rigid standards of South Asian beauty. Yet, she possessed something far more compelling.
Everything about her – from her clothing to her mannerisms to the way she carried herself – radiated confidence. She had striking features and a bold sense of self, but it was her warmth and self-assurance that made people gravitate toward her. Most importantly, she had the rare ability to make other people feel seen.
Instead of minimizing what I felt, she instinctively redirected my attention toward qualities I had overlooked in myself. The older I get, the more I realize how uncommon that gift is. Many people know how to notice flaws, but far fewer know how to recognize strengths. Fewer still know how to reflect those strengths back to someone who has forgotten those positive qualities exist.
If I could somehow find her after all these years, I would tell her something she may never have known. I would tell her that it is I who wished I could trade places with her. Not because of her hair, her features or her appearance, but because of the openness of her heart, the confidence with which she embraced herself and the grace she extended to others. Those qualities are far rarer than beauty, and far more enduring.
Some people leave an imprint on our lives without ever realizing it. She was one of them.
Maha Kamil lives in Ottawa.