In the quiet village of Greenhill, they celebrated Vera’s birthday. The day held special meaning—it was her first celebration after overcoming a grave illness that had nearly stolen her away. The table groaned under the weight of home-cooked dishes: hearty salads, golden pies, roasted meat, and a grand cake adorned with the words, *”To Health and Happiness, Vera!”* Nearly all her loved ones had gathered—family, friends, even colleagues—yet one dear face was missing.
“Darling, where’s Lucy?” Vera asked her husband, Andrew, eyeing the empty chair beside her.
“No idea,” he shrugged. “She isn’t answering her phone. Perhaps she’s stuck in traffic?”
Another half-hour passed before Lucy finally stepped into the room. Silence draped over the gathering like a heavy shroud. All eyes turned to her. Vera gasped.
“Good heavens, Lucy… Why would you do such a thing?”
They had been friends since childhood, their cottages standing side by side, their mothers teaching at the same school. Lucy—bold, brash, full of fire. Vera—gentle, soft-spoken, kindness itself. Opposites in every way, yet bound by something unbreakable.
“Vera, you must learn to say ‘no,'” Lucy would often scold. “I won’t always be there to save you.”
“But why not? We’ll always be together,” Vera would reply, smiling as though *forever* was a promise written in stone.
Vera’s hair had been her pride—thick, dark, cascading down her back in a plait as wide as a man’s wrist. Other girls envied it, though Lucy never did. Hers was ordinary—ash-blonde, forever tied into a practical bun.
After school, their paths diverged: Vera to teacher’s college, Lucy to study engineering. One dreamed of classrooms like her mother; the other, of blueprints like her father. Yet their friendship held firm.
Vera married young—to William, a classmate who’d followed her like a shadow since they were fourteen. Tall and broad-shouldered, he’d enlisted in the army, returning only to drop to one knee. She’d waited for him as one waits for spring—certain and unwavering.
“Wait for me, Vera. I’ll come back, and then it’ll be you and me. Always.”
He kept his word. They married, and within a year, a son was born, filling their home with warmth like the scent of fresh-baked bread.
Lucy, too, married—a fellow student named Oliver. He wasn’t from the village but stayed for her. They lived with her parents at first, then built their own home brick by brick. Later, a daughter arrived.
Through weddings and infancy and endless construction, their friendship endured. They pushed prams side by side, shared holidays, whispered secrets in the dark.
Then Vera fell ill. Gravely so. The doctors offered little hope at first—a silent, creeping thing that drained her day by day. William never left her side. He held her when she could no longer cry, smoothed her brow when the medicines burned, feigned hope even as his own crumbled.
Lucy did what she could. She took Vera’s son on weekends, baked meals, scrubbed floors, arrived with baskets of fruit. Others helped, but Lucy was there every moment, an unshakable pillar.
And Vera fought. Survived the treatments, the weakness, the fear. She pulled through—though her glorious plait remained behind in the hospital. In its place, a modest scarf, knotted neatly at the nape.
Three months later came her birthday party. Laughter, flowers, music. Everyone marvelled at her strength—yet Lucy was nowhere to be seen. Then the door creaked open, and she stepped in.
Lucy—bold, brilliant Lucy—now with her head shorn nearly bare, the barest fringe clinging to her scalp.
A hush fell.
Vera rose, tears pooling in her eyes.
“Why would you do this?”
Lucy crossed the room, embraced her, and with a quiet smile, whispered:
“I thought… why shouldn’t our hair grow together? From the very start. Just like our friendship did.”
“Lucy… You’ve already done so much. You saved me. You *never* left… And now this?”
“For a true friend, there’s no ‘too much.’ Either she’s there—or she isn’t. And I *am.* Always will be.”
William wiped his eyes. He’d known Lucy was kind, but never imagined this depth. He took their hands and murmured,
“You two… People like you are rare. Thank you. Lucy—for standing by Vera, and by me. You’re our guardian angel.”
Guests wept. Cheered. Laughter tangled with tears. That evening stayed etched in every memory—not just a birthday, but a rebirth.
Years passed. Vera had another son; Lucy, a son of her own. Now they gather in Lucy’s cottage kitchen, the air sweet with apple pie and cinnamon. Their children play as they once did. And their hair? Long again.
Because friendship is like hair. If the roots live, it will always grow back.
