Two Sides of the Same Teenage Mirror

 

Two Sides of the Same Teenage Mirror

Reconnecting with someone who knew you at thirteen is strange. You think you remember the same things — same dramas, same scenes — but then you talk and realise you were living parallel lives, not shared ones. Same moments, different angles.

The hair.

I spent my teenage years fighting my curls like they were a curse. Ringlets that refused to behave, perms in the back to flatten what nature insisted on twisting, a hairdryer, TONNES of hairspray, and absolutely no curly‑hair products. Straight at the front, uniform curls at the back — that was the mission.

She stood next to me wanting curls. I stood next to her wanting straight hair. The 80s didn’t make space for either of us to get what we wanted.

Decades later, I’m slathering conditioner on my roots like a rogue scientist, accidentally discovering curl magic on the walk home from the gym — soaking wet hair, no product, just conditioner doing its quiet miracle. Curly hair is a moving target: weather, hormones, mood. Straight‑hair rules never applied to me; I just didn’t know it then. (Curly products didn’t exist for us. Not one.)

Only in the last decade has there been a curl movement — still not for grey curls. Find me one. I’m never the demographic, but the care left the building around 25 anyway.

The clothes.

I was a size 14 at fourteen, buying adult clothes because that’s what fit. Tall frame, long limbs, broad shoulders.

She was tiny, compact, able to slip into anything — or so I thought. She thought I had the advantage. I thought she did.

We dressed the same, but the outfits only ever suited one of us at a time. Two bodies, two frames, two heights — one friendship trying to squeeze into matching looks that were never designed for both.

The context.

We weren’t living the same life, even when we were standing side by side. Her world: steady, structured. Mine: loud, unpredictable. Both neurodivergent, neither of us knowing it. Two universes touching at the edges, trying to behave like one.

We were too young to articulate any of it. Too hormonal, too unsure, too busy trying to be okay. We didn’t have the language for “I want what you have” or “I’m struggling.” We just coped — differently, quietly. Yet talked non stop about the unimportant.

Footnote.

Her mum, Sue, gave me occasional weekends away — caravan trips, a breather, a place where I wasn’t responsible for anyone. I wasn’t there as a helper; I was treated as a child. That’s all it was. A small, simple pause.