What do you see when you look at me?
Somehow, somehow, it hadn’t been the first thing she’d thought of. It really should have been, in hindsight. Someone says cancer, someone else says chemo, and then everyone thinks bald. Everyone imagines that face, the face that looks slightly odd at first glance, that takes a second look and a slightly closer examination to notice that it’s missing eyebrows and eyelashes, their absence accompanied by a headscarf or a beanie or a wig (and no matter how expensive, no matter how well colour matched or style matched to texture matched, you can always tell). Somehow, this whole thought process had just been skipped in Beca’s mind. And so the first time she brushes her hair and sees her whole hairbrush covered in hair is the first time she pictures that face to be her face.
Let’s be real. Beca might have been the alt-girl, she might have started uni dressed in skinny jeans and flannel shirts, with too much eyeliner and holes in her converse, but over the last couple of years she started to care a little more about herself, and some of that has translated into her appearance. She still wears skinny jeans and flannel shirts and what some people would describe as too much eye liner, but now the flannels tend to fit her, and you’re less likely to be able to see her socks through her shoes, and she’s probably done something messily beautiful with her hair. Beca likes her hair. It’s kinda long, it’s kinda curly, it’s not that thick, it’s just kinda ordinary dark brown hair. But Beca likes it. She likes the feel of it down her back when she leaves it down, and she likes the compliments she gets when she braids it, she likes the way it makes her feel sexy when she’s dancing with the Bellas. But it wasn’t until that moment, seeing it there on the brush, that Beca realised how much a part of her identity her hair was.
Beca hasn’t really cried since she got cancer. Big crying wasn’t really her thing. Misty eyes after that Bellas practice, slightly red eyes after a long day, mostly in anger at the complete and utter fucked upness of her having cancer, but the night that she had told Chloe had been her first and only big, proper, all out, shoulders shaking, nose sniffling, eyelids tingling with salt cry. Until now. Until she saw her hair coming out on the brush.
Beca was a very private person. Until now, Beca had been able to choose who knew she had cancer. Despite the way it had slipped out of her, she had chosen to tell Chloe. She had chosen to let Chloe tell the other Bellas. Being over 18, she had even chosen to tell her dad (via email, it should be noted). Beca might not have chosen to have cancer, but she had chosen who she would tell about it. The double whammy of losing her hair and losing her choice hit Beca suddenly, and not for the first time since she was diagnosed, the sheer injustice of the whole situation really dug in, and Beca roars so hard her throat hurts. She throws her hairbrush against her narrow room, not caring that it bounces loudly off the wall she shares with Chloe and suddenly she is pulling and tugging and wrenching at her hair and it comes out with such little resistance that it’s almost disappointing how little effort she needs to put in to be rewarded with handfuls of long, curled, not that thick, kinda ordinary dark brown hair. She can’t stop her hair falling out and she can’t stop people knowing she has cancer but she can do this.
At some point, she becomes aware that Chloe is talking to her, is holding on to her, is grabbing her wrists but gently, gently (because Chloe oh so desperately doesn’t want to bruise those fragile wrists and she knows it’s one of the side effects but she has to stop her). And then Chloe has Beca’s hands down by her sides and she’s guiding the other girl back to the bed, Beca’s knees buckling as they hit the mattress. She’s unclenching Beca’s fists and gathering up the hair clutched in them, putting it in the bin, pinching up the hair from around Beca’s chest of drawers where she had been standing, putting it in the bin and then taking the bin out of the room, while Beca sits there, silent now, efforts expended, starting into space and contemplating the idea that everyone’s gonna know and funny looking cancer kid are new facets of her existence.
“Hey, hey, hey, you’re ok, just stop, you’re alright Beca, you’re ok-“ Chloe is keeping up her comforting patter as Beca looks up, interrupts her, asks,
“What do you see when you look at me, Chlo?”
Chloe takes a second because, although she barely knows what is going through Beca’s head right now, she knows that this is an opportunity – and potentially one for great harm. She chooses her words carefully.
“I see… I see a DJ. A girl who can make new music out of old music, make songs feel things you never thought they could, make arrangements that turn 10 peoples voices into magic that makes hearts swell and eyes water. I see someone who is independent, who can look after herself, but who looks after the people around her with all her heart, even if she hopes that no one notices, even if she would never admit it. I see your eyes. They’re different colours on different days but they’re always beautiful, blue and full of strength. And sass, when you need it. I see a girl who can say a thousand words with a smirk and a well places eyebrow, and I see my best friend.”
Beca is silent for a moment after Chloe’s big speech before she points out,
“Now all people will see when they look at me is cancer. And that sucks.”
And Chloe wants to tell her that that isn’t true, but she can’t because she would be lying.
“Yeah,” all Chloe can do is agree, “that sucks.”
The girls sit in silence for a moment before,
“But you know what? Fuck them. Fuck THEM, because what the fuck do they know? You are Becca fucking Mitchell, teeny tiny DJ, stunning as they make them, badass extraordinaire, queen of acapella and head bitch of the Barden Bellas, and who are they?” Chloe’s voice is getting louder and angrier now, and she is not one to swear.
And Beca sniffs, and Chloe is worried that her speech hasn’t worked, but then
“Calm it down on the compliments, Beale, your toners showing,” Beca manages to get out, a weak smile, throat slightly hoarse, like someone who just screamed as loud as they could 10 minutes ago, and flatter, not with all of her usual bite, but it’s still enough to make Chloe blush.
But then Beca is serious and she isn’t smiling anymore and any sarcasm has gone from her voice when she says,
“Really, Chlo. Thank you.”
And Chloe pushes Beca away and stands up, shoves Beca’s crutches into her hand and exits the bedroom, yelling for a house meeting with all available head gear to convene in 15 minutes. The Bellas of 140A spend the rest of the evening modelling their surprisingly extensive collection of novelty hats and documenting the entire process on the bigger Bellas group chat. The next day, Beca gets a buzzcut and only protests once when Chloe buys two soft cashmere beanies, one for Beca and one for her, and smiles just a tiny bit when Chloe scoops all her hair up in her beanie too.