A Hairy Tale
I was born a blushing child, red-faced always, red as a beetroot, clad in my shyness. Puberty hit. In her neck of the wood, Little Red Riding Hood started shedding blood once a month. I had become a werewolf and the transformation was a messy one.
Years later, things became messier still. I met this big glad wolf of a pal, my twin, and rolled out the red carpet for him. Love obviously wasn’t enough and he sort of got lost, lost… for others and himself, leaving behind the ghost of my former happy self. My red flow stopped a tad early, at 33. Our affair had killed the werewolf within: I was menopaused… and hairy. Oh, the irony!
Since then, I have taken to wearing a flamboyant red coat, so red it hurts, so red it hides my bloody scars in plain sight.