Hideous

“Go on, open it!” Rose crows, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other. I grin at her excitement; her trip to Mauritius has done her the world of good. Her skin is simply glowing, her smile radiant. I tear my eyes away from her flushed cheeks and focus on the squishy package she’s just handed me. Wrapped in simple brown paper, the contents are a mystery. I slip a finger under the flap and start ripping. Each tear exposes a new colour, a new pattern, a new texture… I’m baffled until the garment is fully exposed.

“It was handmade by the locals right in front of me!” she coos, clasping her hands together, “Isn’t it stunning?”

I hold the scarf up and out at arm’s length so I can see it in its entirety. It is, without a doubt, the most hideous item of clothing I have ever seen. None of the colours match. The patterns end and start abruptly, there’s even a glittery thread running through it at places. Shielded from my best friend’s eyes by the cloth, I glance down at my outfit. It’s literally all black: black Docs; black jeans; black undertop; black jumper. Even my fingernails are coated in chipped black polish. Looking between the scarf and my body, I inwardly shake my head; though my best friend in the whole world, she may be the most clueless woman I have ever met.

“What do you think?” I hear her ask, in a way that makes it clear that she thinks it impossible that I will say anything other than-

“I love it!” dropping my arms, I return her smile and embrace her, enveloping both of us in the fabric. I scoop my hair (also black, now I think of it) up and away from my neck so I can swaddle the scarf around it. Once, twice, thrice, how long is this thing… Finally fitted - thankfully, not as itchy as it looks - Rose ruffles up the front so it falls nicely. 

“There,” she steps back and looks at me with contentedly folded arms, “ready to hit the town!”

I manage a grin, shaking my head, outwardly this time.

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That bloody scarf! I’m not a scarf person at the best of times. I would grab the blasted thing if I came to see Rose, or if it was painfully cold on the walk into work, but mostly it skulked in the corner of my wardrobe and resented me as I ignored it. I could never say anything to her - she had thought of me while she was out of the country, had spent her hard-earned money, had waited while someone toiled over their project until it was ready to be taken home. I began to feel a bit guilty about keeping it coiled on the floor - it was handmade after all. I slung it over a coat hanger in the end, its tassels peeking out from between the hems of my monochrome sweatshirts.

It came to have its uses, once in a blue moon. My workmate had a rainbow-themed party to celebrate coming out to his family; the scarf was woven from every colour under the sun, and received its first compliments at that gathering. Once I got over the embarrassment of being associated with it, I became quietly proud of saying that it was handmade, that it wasn’t fast fashion, that it was a gift from my friend.

I began to haul it out at other work outings; it became a bit of an injoke. My style was so one-dimensional… except for The Scarf. You never accessorise… except for The Scarf. I would send a silent thank-you to Rose each time someone noticed it, complimented it, even when they joked about it or said it was ‘garish’ or ‘interesting’.

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Crap crap crap I’m late. And it’s freezing. And I can’t find my shoes. Kill me kill me kill me. Without thinking, I wrap The Scarf around my neck and shove my feet into my Docs. I hop-shuffle, laces untied, from my flat to the nearest tube station. I manage to collapse through the closing doors just in time, settle myself onto a plastic seat and bend to tie the boots up.

“My god. You actually wear that when you’re not coming to see me?”

I start, jerking my head up towards the familiar voice, my progress jarred by the fact that one of the damn tassels has got trapped between the tube floor and my feet. Extricating myself, I raise my head to meet eyes with the one and only Rose.

“Seriously, I bought it as a joke! You think I don’t know your style is exclusively Retro Goth?”

I flush; I haven’t even spoken yet and she’s confused the hell out of me. 

“I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m digging your new style, Hippie Mum Has Goth Phase, but you can’t tell me you thought I was serious!”

“Well, yes!” I sputter, “You were so excited when you gave it to me!”

“I was waiting for you to cackle and tell me how hideous it was!”

“Oh god,” I cackle now, a few months too late, “it is hideous isn’t it!”

“The most hideous!”

We snort together, ignoring the side-eyes from our fellow commuters.

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This holiday has been heavenly. I’m sun-kissed, sore-legged and windswept. I pad into the shop, trying to brush off as much sand as I can as I smile to the shopkeeper. My eyes glaze over shot glasses, beach towels and Been There, Done That, Got The T-Shirt tops. Nah, not what I’m looking for. I pass a whole rack of scarves and share a private giggle with myself. Too on-the-nose. Near the back of the cavernous room, where the shelves are all higgledy-piggledy, I spy some likely contenders.

The figurines are of gnomes, cheap homages to creatures from local folklore. Their features are grotesquely over-exaggerated, their positions vary from crouching and ready to pounce to ones which were most certainly not safe for work. I select a manic-looking gremlin from the middle of the pack. I shudder at the touch; they have real hair. I hope and pray that it isn’t human. Yes, I think, you’re the perfect level of hideous. I picture Rose’s face as she unwraps him and grin.

Revenge is sweet.