She Wiped The Glitter Off

FIRST PUBLISHED 27th May 2025

She’d just come off stage.
A matinee performance.
Still had her makeup on-
bright eyeshadow, thick lashes,
tiny diamantés stuck to her cheekbones.
She was proud.
She looked amazing.
Eleven years old and glowing.
We were on our way to her next rehearsal
because she’s busy like that-
and she couldn’t wait to show her friends
how she sparkled.

We drove from the village to the city.
It’s only small, but it’s the biggest place near us.
We parked in the multi-storey,
just a short walk from the theatre.
She was ahead of me.
Quicker than me, always.
She skipped down a set of outdoor steps
into the lower level of the car park.
I stayed at the top, locking the car,
fishing my keys into my bag.

That’s when I saw him.
An old man.
Old enough to be her grandfather.
He was already moving toward her.
Crossed the space between them,
straight to where she stood.
And he started talking.
Like he had every right to.

I couldn’t hear what he said.
But I saw her stop.
Saw the change in her face.
She was confused.
Uncertain.
Frozen.

My gut twisted.
I sped up.

By the time I reached her,
he was saying something like
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
Sweetheart.
Pretty little thing.

But I know
he said worse
before I got there.
She never freezes like that.

I slid my arm through hers
and smiled.
Tight. Controlled.
“Oh no, I don’t think you have,” I said.
And we walked on.
Quickly.
Safely.
Silently.

Because I couldn’t say
what I wanted to say.
I couldn’t risk it.
Not in a dark car park.
Not when I didn’t know what he might do.

That’s the thing.
We don’t know which men are dangerous.
So we treat them all like they might be.
Not because we hate them.
Because we want to survive.

She didn’t speak much as we walked to the café.
We sat down.
She said she needed the toilet.
It was just behind me.

When she came back,
her face was bare.
The glitter was gone.
The diamantés wiped away.

“I don’t want another man speaking to me like that,”
she said.

And in that moment,
something cracked.
Something changed.

We talked,
over tea and toast,
about how she could wear what she liked.
A purple mohawk.
Zebra lashes.
Whatever she wanted.
Because it’s not her fault.
It never is.

I told her what I’ve always told her:
Be bold. Be bright.
Be yourself.
Don’t shrink for anyone.
Speak up when something feels wrong.
You don’t owe the world your silence.

And I meant it.
Every word.
But sitting there
with her wiping the sparkle from her skin,
I also told her how to stay safe.

How to walk quickly.
How to keep her head down.
How to blend in.
How to stay small,
just in case.

And I hate that I did that.
Hate that I have to.

How do I teach her both?
How can I raise a girl to shine
and also survive?

That balance is impossible.
And now she knows it.

Now she lives with fear.
She carries it.
Just days ago, she didn’t.
And that makes this
her coming of age.

Not joy.
Not freedom.
Not becoming herself.

But learning
that being herself
is dangerous.

She won’t forget.
Neither will I.

And I can’t promise her
it won’t happen again.

Because it will.

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